


The Fulcrum of the Force

by paleogymnast



Series: Hunters of the Dark Side [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Crossover, F/M, M/M, Science Fiction & Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-13
Updated: 2010-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 123,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleogymnast/pseuds/paleogymnast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2010 <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/deancasbigbang">DeanCasBigBang</a>.<br/>Five thousand years ago, the most powerful Sith Lord the universe had ever seen set in motion a plan to shift the balance of power to the Dark Side—permanently. Hidden by the Jedi Council, the Sith Lord and his plan were forgotten by all but a few. Records of the Sith Lord were hidden away and became known as the Lost Prophecy, while the Sith Lord himself became known as the Wraith.</p><p>Now the Wraith wages battle for the very soul of the Force. The fate of the Force and every life in the universe now falls to the mysterious Healer and his Guide...</p><p>Dean Winchester, a trained Hunter of the Dark Side, is the Healer, and Cas Tiel, the soul of a long-dead Jedi Master joined with the body of a new vessel, is his Guide. As Dean struggles with the loss of his father, the alienation of his brother, and a host of confusing, potentially deadly new powers, will he follow the path the Prophecy has foretold? Or will his unexpectedly strong connection to Cas help him to forge a new path and a new future? And what will happen when Dean realizes he is not just someone who heals <i>with</i> the Force, but the Healer <i>of</i>the Force itself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> _This is a Supernatural–Star Wars fusion and crossover written for the 2010[Dean/Cas BigBang](http://community.livejournal.com/deancasbigbang) and a sequel to my entry for the 2009 [SPN J2 BigBang](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_j2_bigbang) ["Hunters of the Dark Side"](http://paleogymnast.livejournal.com/18329.html). However, this story does stand alone, and there are events that happen between the two stories and after this one that will be the subject of forthcoming stories. Familiarity with Hunters of the Dark Side will provide a more nuanced reading experience, but it is by no means necessary._
> 
>  **Thanks:** Many thanks to my betas: CalamityCrow, Carlos, Engel82, and Sleepwalker1015. I made additional changes after incorporating their feedback and edits, so all remaining mistakes are my own. (If you spot a glaring error, please kindy let me know, and I will fix it ASAP.)
> 
>  **Character Notes**
> 
> To fit with the universe, the names of some characters have been changed or modified. The following is a list of Characters from the Supernatural 'Verse that have been renamed for purposes of this story:
> 
> Character_______________________________________________The Fulcrum of the Force Name  
> Castiel_________________________________________________Cas Tiel  
> Azazel/The YED__________________________________________Darth Azazel  
> Victor Henricksen_______________________________________Jedi Master Gariq Shran  
> Zachariah_______________________________________________Master Zachariah  
> Uriel___________________________________________________Master Uriel  
> Metalicar_______________________________________________Iriaz Dream / S8V1 (aka Chevy)  
> Truckzilla______________________________________________Hunter's Folly  
> Bobby's Car_____________________________________________The Womp Rat  
> Missouri Moseley________________________________________Miss'Ouri Ot'Kla
> 
>  **Star Wars Terminology and Resources**
> 
> Much of the research from this fic was done though Wookieepedia, the Star Wars Wiki. You can find more information (and pictures) on any of the aliens, planets, terminology, languages, and the buidings used in this fic. I am also happy to answer your questions. I'm a geek and sometimes I geek out on authenticity. :) Here's a list of some of the common, but maybe not super-obvious terms I've used. If you see any others that you would like to have defined up front, please let me know!
> 
> Hunters of the Dark Side Term__________________Meaning   
> Refresher, 'fresher____________________________Bathroom  
> Holocube_______________________________________Photograph  
> Holonet________________________________________Internet  
> Slicer, slice, slicing_________________________Hacker, hack, hacking  
> Tapcaf_________________________________________Bar/Cantina  
> Holo[anything]_________________________________Video[anything]  
> Flimsi, flimsiplast____________________________Paper  
> Basic__________________________________________English (more or less)  
> Sith___________________________________________A specific Dark Side order  
> The Protectorate_______________________________A secret order of Force-users  
> Ysalamir(i)____________________________________Force-repelling lizards
> 
> Lost Prophecy Specific Terms  
> The Guardian___________________________________An ancient ysalamir  
> The Emissary___________________________________Mary (Campbell) Winchester  
> The Hunter_____________________________________John Winchester  
> The Guide______________________________________Cas Tiel  
> The Healer_____________________________________Dean Winchester  
> The Chosen One_________________________________Sam Winchester  
> The Messenger__________________________________Ruby  
> The Wraith_____________________________________Darth Azazel
> 
> For a single-file PDF of the fic, please leave a comment here or or [at my LJ](http://paleogymnast.livejournal.com/48594.html).

**Prologue:**

(six months ago)

 

The stars shone like glimmering jewels, twinkling against the blackness of space.  He had missed it for so long.  Millennia spent wrapped in the Dark Side, out of touch with the physical realm had deprived him of the sheer beauty of space.  This marvelous, masterful existence made possible by the Force.

 

In the nearly thirty-three years since he had been summoned, awakened, drawn back to this existence there had been moments—brief flashes of perspective—where he had been able to sit back and appreciate the beauty of space.  But all his time had been spent on planning, learning, adapting, lying in wait.  His world had narrowed down to finding the next host and the next and putting the pieces in play and preparing for the Chosen One.  So many pawns on his chessboard; so many Sabacc cards shifting values.  He had lost himself in the thrill of the hunt.  Tracking his Prey; watching the prophecy he had set in motion through the Force thousands of years before moving inexorably towards its preordained conclusion.  There hadn’t been a moment or ounce of energy to spare for the more elegant aspects of life.

 

Now, the hour of his victory was almost at hand.  The Prey had been destroyed—utterly defeated, his misguided self sacrifice sealing his son’s fate and ensuring the plan would unfold as foretold.  His followers had been avenged.  And while not all had been freed, much to his frustration, his top two prized lieutenants were now roaming the galaxy fully alive once again in bodies that were fully their own, cleansed and freed by equal sacrifice.  But best of all, he’d forced the Protectorate’s hand.  When Lilith had killed the Chosen One, their precious _Healer_ and his _Guide_ had been forced out of hiding.  Now the Chosen One was resurrected and primed for his _true_ role in the Prophecy, and the Protectorate had shown all their cards.  It was almost poetic. 

 

So, it was with great satisfaction and pleasure that Lord Azazel now sat alone on the observation deck of the _Korriban Star_ , taking in the beauty before him.  The _Star_ had been designed as a luxury yacht, but the paranoid warlord—rumored to have been an upwardly mobile member of the infamous Black Sun crime syndicate—had retrofitted the ship with perks that would make Republic Intelligence jealous.  Six, synchronized turbolaser turrets were evenly arranged over the dorsal and ventral surfaces of the ship and capable of a full 360 degrees of rotation.  Twin ion cannons, mounted fore and aft, made it easy to disable enemy ships and make a quick, easy getaway.  Five proton torpedo launcher tubes meant the _Star_ packed a much more powerful punch than comparable ships her size, and they were versatile too, capable of easy adaptation, allowing her to fire multiple types of munitions.  Of course, she had the latest in sensor arrays and encrypt/decrypt packages, which meant Darth Azazel could spy on almost anyone—including the _Jedi_ , without having to employ a slicer who might ask… unfortunate… questions.  Military-grade shields and the fastest, most powerful hyperdrive money could by rounded out the package that made the _Star_ one of the most desirable ships in the galaxy.  And it was all his, all because he had waited, researched, reached out in the force to find the perfect host for this stage of his plan. 

 

Azazel leaned back in the contoured seat, relishing the way it adjusted to comfort his body.  He punched in a query on the interface seamlessly embedded in the chair’s armrest, checking the time.  He was waiting for someone, an appointment five thousand years in the making, and it wouldn’t be long now.

 

Leaning back, he returned his attention to the vastness of space spread out before him.  It was such a precious sight.  Hundreds of millions of stars, so many of them surrounded by planets teeming with sentient life.  All of it made possible by the Force.  Just a few more months and the Chosen One would reach the perfect age… _twenty-three_.  Like Pure Sabacc, he would be ripe for the taking, and together they would have enough power, enough strength in the Force to free the people on all of those planets from the insidious oppression of the Jedi.  He chuckled to himself.  Sabacc hadn’t been invented yet when he’d lived out his mortal existence, but in the last thirty-two–plus years he’d inhabited enough low-lives and scoundrels to learn the basic concepts and realize that the game’s perfect score was a metaphor for his ultimate goal.  When the Chosen One reached the age of twenty-three, his powers would be at their zenith, perfect to combine with Azazel’s…

 

Together they would bring the full power of the Dark Side to the galaxy.  Together they would defeat the sanctimonious, patronizing Jedi and their inferior ways.  Together they would wield the Force with more strength and skill than the galaxy had ever seen.  _Soon._   Soon it would be time.

 

A chime sounded on the console to the left of his chair.  Darth Azazel turned the head of his current host—the would-be crime boss, it thankfully had long ago surrendered and retreated to the deepest corners of its mind; it’s pathetic weakness allowing for Azazel to have almost perfect control—and took in the flashing light that signified an incoming holocomm transmission.  _At last it was time for the final piece to come into play… the hidden card.  His insurance policy, about which the Protectorate had never known_.

 

It had been five thousand years.  So long since he had seen his very _best_ student.  His most faithful and dedicated follower.  Not even his trusted lieutenants, Lilith and Alastair, the two followers he had managed to free from the Thought Bomb, knew about her.  He looked around the observation deck, taking in the smooth, sleek, curved obsidian lines of the consoles and chairs, the flawless clarity of the viewport.  He looked down at himself, shifting slightly and adjusting his heavy, ebony nerfwool cloak around him, focusing and steadying himself to project the most imposing image possible.  When he was satisfied, he reached over to the console, and pressed a button.  The flashing light stopped, and a three-dimensional holoprojection crackled and sparked to life in front of the viewport behind him.

 

The first thing he noticed was her eyes.  The image was dark with little light, a hood covering her head cast her face in shadows, but still her eyes stood out, sparkling with the radiance and intensity of Corusca gems, alive, powerful, and so recognizable, even though she now wore the body of some unknown host.  Against the backdrop of space, her eyes shown brighter than the stars, and Lord Azazel felt the long-buried, familiar thrill roll through his gut.

 

“Hello, Master,” the image said, dropping to one knee head bowed.  The voice was younger, higher pitched than hers had been in life, but he could still hear—feel—the edge of her true voice coming through.  The power it contained was… breathtaking.

 

“Greetings,” Darth Azazel began, tenting his fingers over his knee.  “I trust the summons worked as planed?”  He knew it must have, or he wouldn’t be able to communicate with him, but he had to ask.  Setting up his Messenger, priming her, preparing her, making sure she could hide out in the Force for as long as necessary and come back to the living world only upon _his_ call… it had all been so _sensitive_.  He’d had to weave tendrils of the Force in ways even he had never done before calling on the most ancient legends of the True Sith—the species who had originally mastered the Dark Side, who had once ruled more of the galaxy with their vast empire than even the Republic had ever controlled—carefully concealing her from the Jedi Counsel, his followers, and the Protectorate.  It had been imperative that none of them know of her existence.  And it had worked. 

 

In the holoprojection her cloaked head rose, piercing eyes focusing on Lord Azazel.  “I drifted in the Force listening for your Call, and when it came, I followed.”

 

She swallowed, a flicker of pain crossing what was visible of her features—human, pale-skinned, female; that was all he could tell from the shadowed image—as quickly as it had come, the pain disappeared as her eyes shown brighter and her body rose straighter.  Lord Azazel felt a burning swell of pride at how well he had trained her, how well she possessed her pain and used it to fuel her powers.

 

“It was… trying, Master, but I am stronger for it.”  She lowered her eyes, before looking up again, waiting.

 

“I see you have found a suitable host,” Azazel said, leaning forward in his seat to be closer to the holoprojection. 

 

“Yes, Master,” she bowed her head again, “When I emerged from the Force, I was on Ossus, like you said I would be, but it has been changed, ravaged by time and space.  The Jedi Library, the cities, they’re all gone, but a tribe, the Ysanna, lives here, wielding the Force as if it were magic.  A young Ysannan girl was drawn to the cave where my soul stood.  She said she’d had visions of sacrificing herself for the great Messenger from the time she was a child.  She recognized my Force-ghost as the Messenger, and sacrificed herself to me, giving me some of her power and her memories.  She did not know much, but I learned of an archeological excavation going on nearby.  I was able to stow away aboard one of the ships transporting students to and from the site.”  She lowered her voice, “There were _Jedi_ among them,” the word came out like a sneer, “but they did not detect me.  I was able to access their computers and learn some of what I have missed.  I was also able to follow your signs, to contact you.  I am now on Chandrilla, in Hanna city…”  A smile broke across her features, “It appears the locals are still _reeling_ from what I assume is your handiwork.”

 

“Yes, yes, I was able to exact revenge on Chandrilla for the lives and souls their traitorous Jedi _stole_ from me,” he clutched his right hand in a fist, feeling the room shake around him, vibrating with shockwaves of the Force.

 

“Then everything is proceeding as you foretold,” she answered.

 

“Indeed, and the Chosen One is waiting for you.  A rift has formed between him and the Healer and his Guide.  The Chosen One is looking for _information_ …”  He smiled.

 

“And I will deliver your message, my Lord,” she replied, bowing again.

 

“Good, good,” he smiled, the Dark Side flowing through him freely.  “You will find the Chosen One in hiding on Nar Shaddaa.  The Force will guide you to him.  Approach him; befriend him; gain his trust.  Prepare him for what is to come.”

 

“Yes, Master,” she answered.

 

“Go now, I will contact you through the Force with further instructions.”

 

“As you wish, My Lord.”  Her image reached forward to switch off the holocomm and then blinked out.

 

Lord Azazel was once again greeted by stars shimmering against the blackness of space.  Soon, it would all be his.  Soon the galaxy would learn the true power of the Dark Side.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 1:**

 _The Iriaz Dream_ (present day)

 

Dean wandered down the dark corridor, the only light coming from the faint blue-green glow of unseen panels overhead. The floor was rough under his booted feet, yet his steps made not a sound.  No scratching, no scuffing. Not even an echo.  Silence.  In the back of his mind, a little voice told him it was like the Rune Ward.  Like, but not quite.  The Rune Ward was ancient and Force-imbued, but it felt real, alive.  Dean’s corridor was a ghost of a dream; there but not really, a passage to somewhere or a destiny in and of itself; distant and disconnected, but more real than life.

 

Everything seemed to be waiting.  It was as if the universe was holding its breath, holding on in anticipation of what was to come.  _Your future_.  A voice whispered on the wind that wasn’t there.  Dean wanted to shudder with fear, but he could not.  _This_ Dean was not afraid.  Or maybe he was, but the fear was tamped down and controlled, scabbed over with desperation and need, stitched together with hope and determination and… _Love._   Dean was himself, yet not.  An observer, yet present.

 

With every step, Dean became more aware.  He could feel the crisp, slightly coarse texture of a raw silk tunic pressed against his chest, the flex and give of linen pants clinging tight to his legs, sliding into the well-worn nerfhide boots that came up to just below his knees, the familiar soft stretch and pull of his nerfhide jacket brushing against his neck.  And there, there at his hip, resting against his thigh—a lightsaber.  _Mom’s lightsaber._   He brushed his hand against it, feeling the cool smoothness of its cylinder, the faint texture of the brushed emitter housing, the delicate outlines of the stones circling its hilt.  He _knew_ it; the weapon was an extension of himself, it had molded to his personality, to the echo in his soul that was so like his mother’s, behaving as well for him as it had for her.  A treasure destined to be passed down to the next generation.

 

He could feel temperature now, where before he had sensed nothing; the air was growing from cool to warm, faint currents brushing and teasing across his skin, raising gooseflesh in their wake—not because it was cold… because… _something isn’t right here._

 

He could _feel_ something up ahead.  _Ahead_ where the eternity of the corridor opened into something big and black and cavernous, the mysterious glow overhead twisting, changing, morphing from blue-green to purple-red it’s glow somehow harsher and colder despite the color’s warmth.

 

Dean felt his breathing quicken, still regulated underneath a thick shell of forced calm, but faster, shallower.  It was here.  _He_ was here.  It was almost… Time!  Dean dropped his hand to his belt instinctively, the lightsaber freeing itself from his belt and falling gracefully into his hand as he slipped forward into a defensive stance, lightsaber held in a mid guard, its sparkling emerald light illuminating the cavern before him, and not a second too soon.

 

As the blade settled into place with its distinctive snap-hiss, a dark, cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows.  The figure’s long black robe swirling around black booted feet and ebony-clad legs, the only element of color coming from the figure’s ruby red tabard; hood up, hiding his face in shadow, making his imposing stature positively enormous.  The figure’s head snapped up suddenly as he called his lightsaber from his belt.  It landed neatly in his hands, extending its crackling purple blade, illuminating the hooded face.

 

 _Sam!_   His eyes were dark and sunken, rimmed in red and surrounded by dark circles.  His skin looked sallow, gaunt, as if he had not slept or eaten a proper meal in weeks.  A new scar traced a curling arc down his right temple and across his cheekbone.  His lips curled with anger—hatred, fear, disgust… Dean wasn’t sure.  It was so _wrong_ , but clearly Sam.  _Or what he has become._

 

Dean couldn’t stop the shudder; it passed through him and up, shaking him from head to toe.  He managed to keep the lightsaber steady, but he knew _Sam_ had seen his weakness, his sorrow.  The only thing that gave Dean hope were Sam’s eyes.  Even in the eerie purple glow, Dean could see they were still brown.  It was still Sam.  Azazel hadn’t taken him yet.

 

“Hello, _brother_ ,” Sam spoke, his voice a dark angry snarl, the words clawing from his throat.

 

“Sam,” Dean felt himself murmur aloud, perceiving it in an unsettling here-but-not way in which he had sensed everything in this corridor and cavern of nothingness, wherever and whenever it was.  “You’re alright.  He doesn’t have you yet,” he continued, a fledgling hope taking wing in his chest, fluttering up in his throat and threatening to choke him.

 

“I told you to stay away.  It isn’t safe for you around me.  You can’t be here!” Sam countered, almost like he hadn’t heard Dean speak, his voice icy cold.  He tightened his grip on his lightsaber and sunk into a preparatory stance.

 

“Sam, no, whatever you think, whatever you saw—it doesn’t have to happen.  He’s using you, trying to trick you.  Come back with me—me and Cas,” he gasped, the words tumbling from his lips, rushing out, frantic and fearful, breaking through the shroud of calm he’d summoned around himself.  If he stopped, if he couldn’t speak the words, Sam might _never_ hear him.  “Together we can defeat him.  You don’t ha—”

 

“Hah!” Sam barked, his laugh twisted, bitter, sarcastic.  He stood up slightly, lowering his lightsaber to a low guard.  “I don’t have to what?  I don’t have to follow him?  I don’t have to let him in?  Don’t have to join him?  Or what, I don’t have to fulfill my destiny?” he spat, incredulous.  “Or what, Dean, I don’t have to kill _you?_   You know, that’s why I ran away.  I saw this, and I wanted to save you.  You’re just to stupid for your own good.  So, you followed me, found me.  Did _Cas_ order you to, Dean?  Were you following his instructions like a good little soldier?” 

 

Dean could see the Force building in Sam.  It flowed into him, coalescing around him like a vibrating cloud giving Sam an almost electric glow.  The lightsaber was moving, ever so slightly creeping up, back, preparing to strike.  Dean took a deep breath, calmed himself, opened his mind to the Force, let it fill him, letting go and loosing himself in it until the Force was him and he was an extension of the Force.  He did his best to let go of the hate in Sam’s words.  There would be another time.  The situation was dire, but there was still time.  Sam’s eyes were still Brown.  All he had to do was survive, without killing Sam, and the universe would live to see another day.

 

“And now it’s gonna happen anyway,” Sam continued, the Force pulsating around him, building up to fuel his blow.  “Guess what, Dean, my destiny’s real, and there’s nothing I can do about it!”  As Sam spoke the last word, he moved lighting fast, the Force speeding his movements, striking faster than the eye could see.

 

But Dean was faster still, months of training and conditioning, studying, learning reforming him.  He was not a man, not a Jedi, not a force-user, but a conduit, the instrument through which the Force flowed, through which the Force healed itself.  His emerald green blade caught Sam’s hazy purple saber low and close to the hilt, the force of the strike vibrating painfully up his arms, threatening to shake his stance, but he let it go, let the pain flow out, the Force flow in.  He pushed, leaned forward, and stared into Sam’s eyes.  “I _am_ going to save you,” he said slowly, solemnly.

 

Sam’s eyes widened, and the cavern dissolved into a flash of blinding white light.

 

Dean’s eyes snapped open, and he gasped.  Sweat streaming across his brow, down his neck and back, his palms and feet clammy with it.  He was greeted with the same excruciating tearing he felt every morning, the endless push-pull, the opposing forces of Light and Dark, tugging on the Force, tearing it apart, destroying the fabric of the universe in their endless, selfish struggle for control.  The pain hit him, as it always did, low in the gut, cramping, burning, making him snap upright, knees pulled to his chest as he doubled up in agony.  He blinked and there it was, the endless indigo ribbon of the force, tearing, fracturing, shredding apart, the tendrils snapping away and flying off into the abyss, never to be reunited again.  It flowed _through_ him and it was breaking, Dean at its center, holding the Force together, trying to heal it.  Trying to keep the universe in check so they all might live to see another day. 

 

He took deep, gulping breaths, calming and steadying himself.  _Peace.  There is only Peace._   He repeated over and over to himself; with each breath, each repetition, the pain eased slightly until finally he was open to the Force, welcoming it back into him, warming him from within, so that slowly, ever so slowly, the snapped strands and wayward ribbons knit themselves back together.  As the pain eased, he panted, sobbing slightly with the exertion; his head collapsing onto crossed arms propped on bent knees.

 

“Hey,” the voice said softly, a firm, gentle hand, stroking soothingly at his lower back, feeding his own Force into it, unknotting some of the pain.  “Just breathe, Dean, you can do it, it’s all right.”  He felt lips press gently to his shoulder blade, and then Cas was pulling Dean into his arms, _shhing_ and soothing his trembling body.

 

“I had a vision,” Dean croaked.  “I saw… I saw _Sam_.”

 

“What did you see?” Cas’s voice was cautious, hesitant, soft, as if he knew Dean’s vision was both important and painful.  He probably did; maybe didn’t know the _contents_ of the vision, but its effect on Dean, yes; how it was affecting him, what emotions were flooding through him; Cas probably even could differentiate between the vision’s effects and the ever-present daily strain of being the Healer, the pressures that fell on Dean by virtue of him being the only thing keeping the Force from tearing apart.  As part of being the Guide, Cas seemed to have an especially acute sense of everything Dean experienced, and in turn that allowed him to soothe, comfort, and yes, _guide_ Dean through it.  When it came to Sam and the _future_ he wouldn’t push, not more than was absolutely necessary.

 

“He… he was changed,” Dean started, searching for words to describe what he had seen.  He could probably open his mind to Cas and allow him to glean the details himself, but Cas wouldn’t want to do that.  It felt too forced, intrusive.  For all of Cas’s brusque, stern seriousness and encouragement that Dean embrace the Force openly, he was never one to use the Force unnecessarily or as a psychological weapon.  “I think it was the future.  I felt… _different_.  My,” he sighed, heaving in a few more lungfuls of oxygen, trying to tamp down the nausea that was rising in him.  The shift from unconsciousness to consciousness continued to wreak havoc on his ability to maintain balance in the Force.  As the pain receded, he shivered, but for a far more pleasant reason.  Cas had slid closer to him, sitting up beside and behind Dean and wrapping his hands around Dean’s bare, shivering torso, rubbing his hands soothingly over his sides.  “My control of my emotions was better.  It felt easier, natural,” he explained breath hitching. 

 

He sat in silence, as Cas helped him to ground and center himself.  Slowly, Dean’s awareness grew, his surroundings came back to him, bit-by-bit he reconnected with the world around him, his existence expanding from the fully internal _hurt-pain-need-Force-tearing-Sam-Loss_ with only a pinhole perspective on the world, to an aware, independent, living being ensconced in a multifaceted environment.  Dean could feel the comforting, crisp coolness of the sheets beneath him, the familiar closeness of the walls of the _Dream_ ’s main cabin, and the calming vibration of the hyperdrive.  He could smell Cas and the faint echo of Sam’s presence, reminding him of happier days when his brother shared the room.  If he reached out with his senses, as was reflexive now, he could hear the murmur of the _Dream_ ’s computer and the whir of Chevy’s servos, even the almost electrical whisper of hyperspace itself, swirling endlessly around the _Dream_ ’s hull.  And as reality returned, so did his recollection of the vision, understanding and comprehension chasing on the heels of awareness.

 

“I think I know why Sam left,” he whispered, afraid to voice the words.  The image of Sam, lightsaber gripped high, pulsating with the force, burning with anger and frustration, defeat and resignation radiating from him, sorrow in his eyes, as he spoke those words.  “He saw the future too, and he saw himself killing me,” Dean realized.

 

Cas’s hands stilled, his forehead dropping to rest against Dean’s neck.  Gently, he pulled Dean back against him, the familiar comfort of skin-to-skin contact breaking through the dread Dean felt rising inside.  “You know the future isn’t written in stone.  You’ve both seen one _possible_ path, one thread of the Force—”

 

“Yeah Cas,” Dean snapped with unexpected bitterness and force, “but we’ve both seen the _same_ thread now.  How likely is it we’re going to avoid that now?  Especially with the Force tearing more every day—”

 

“Did you see him kill you?” Cas asked matter-of-factly.

 

Dean thought back, drawing on his training to suppress his emotions.  His control was still so shaky, unreliable, but gradually the fear and desperation subsided and he was able to drift back into the vision, exploring it now from a different perspective, picking up the details he’d missed; looking, sensing, feeling as if he was a neutral observer.  He saw the scene again, Sam striking, him countering, the _surprise_ in Sam’s widened eyes.  “No,” he admitted at last, letting out a long ragged sigh.  “Sam attacked me, and he seemed _surprised_ when I blocked him,” he admitted.

 

“Then it is likely the future you have seen and that which Sam saw are two different possibilities, related, interconnected, but not the same.  And you must trust in the Force, allow it to guide you,” Cas murmured into Dean’s neck, his breath warm and alive, a counterpoint to the feeing of cold and death that seemed to follow Dean around these days, especially when he thought of Sam.

 

“Even if the _Force_ leads me to sacrifice myself or kill my brother?” Dean asked.

 

Cas didn’t answer, he didn’t need to.  They’d had this conversation far too many times over the past six months.  They both need the answer.  _Even then_.  “Even _I_ don’t know what will happen Dean,” he offered instead, pressing his lips to Dean’s shoulder.  “But you think that was why Sam left?” he asked.

 

“Sam said so,” Dean answered.  “Said it wasn’t safe to be around him.  He was trying to _save_ me by running away.”

 

Cas nodded behind him, hair tickling Dean’s skin.  “That all he said?” Cas asked releasing Dean and stretching behind him.

 

“No,” Dean admitted with a faint chuckle.  “He had some pretty choice words to say about you.  And me, and my _obedience_.” 

 

Cas sighed, slipping out from behind Dean and pulling himself to the edge of the bed, so that he could look Dean in the eye.  “You said he’d changed?”

 

Dean hung his head, not wanting to be that close, not have that _window to the soul_ available as he admitted what he’d seen. “He hadn’t _fallen_ yet, or been possessed,” he started, intently examining his hands.  “His eyes were still his own.  But he was darker.  Wearing black robes and a ruby red tabard… he had a scar…”  Dean ran his hand along his temple and cheek, tracing the path he’d seen Sam’s scar take.  “I don’t know what caused it.  And he had a lightsaber, and he knew how to use it.”

 

“So Sam’s been training,” Cas murmured.  “Dean?” he continued.  “What did the lightsaber look like?”

 

The urgency in Cas’s voice made Dean raise his head.  “Um, kind of purple blade, silver hilt… it was simple, not much detail,” Dean answered.  “Why?”

 

“Because that’s your mother’s lightsaber too,” Cas answered softly.

 

“What?” Dean asked, shocked, reaching reflexively for the green-bladed, artistically embellished lightsaber that was resting securely in its case in on the shelf next to their bed.  The lightsaber he’d been wielding in the vision; he felt his fingers close around it and felt the shock of tension loosen.  He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting—that it would be gone, that Sam would have somehow stolen and transformed it?

 

Cas shifted on the bed, tucking his legs up to sit cross-legged facing Dean.  “The way the Order allows Jedi to move up in rank and the way Jedi first acquire lightsabers has fluctuated over time.  The process hasn’t always been exactly the same, but it’s usually been close.  Of course, before we had lightsabers, at least in the way you think of them, things were a bit different.”

 

Dean listened intently, focusing his eyes on Cas as he spoke; the only sign of Dean’s anxiety, the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his hands in the soft, worn sheet that lay twisted around his ankles.  His parents, well _Dad_ mostly, had been so anti-Jedi, that for all he learned about why Jedi were bad, how they destroyed families, how they ignored so much of the Dark Side energy and relics and creatures that were running around hurting people, he had never really learned the fundamentals of how the Jedi—the _Order_ , as he was now beginning to think of it—operated.  The hatred and disdain for everything Jedi made sense now, _so much sense_ , but yet Dean couldn’t help but feel a little resentment.  He was Force-sensitive, well more of a specialized Force conduit to be precise, but here he was twenty-seven years old and struggling to learn a lifetime’s worth of training in a matter of months, while lacking the rudimentary familiarity with the Jedi that most average, ordinary non-Force sensitive kids had.

 

Cas cocked his head sideways, taking in Dean’s reaction, his eyes almost glowing as they twinkled star-blue-bright in the dim light.  As always, Cas seemed to be looking into Dean, searching his soul—but without the telltale intrusive nudge of a Force-user picking into his thoughts.  Dean was beginning to realize Cas’s skills, his ability as a Jedi—indeed how he had likely become the Guide in the first place—had much more to do with Cas’s innate aptitudes for observation, perception, intuition, and deduction.  “When your mother was at the academy, a Force Adept who moved in rank from Initiate to Padawan would often be given a lightsaber, that or follow a highly structured ritual to build and charge a lightsaber.”  Cas cocked his head back to neutral, making sure Dean was listening.

 

Dean nodded, understanding.  He’d heard something about this before.

 

“Because the lightsabers were either made by another or formed by a Jedi with largely rudimentary skills, such first sabers were usually simple—not ornate, not advanced,” Cas continued, pausing to see if Dean was following. 

 

 _Ahh_ , Dean thought, recalling the appearance of Sam’s lightsaber in the vision.  “So, a lightsaber with a simple silver hilt and purple blade with no other embellishments would probably be that of a Padawan, a first lightsaber?” he hedged.

 

“Yes,” Cas nodded.  “Although, I am fairly confident your mother made that lightsaber herself, considering the crystals that give lightsaber blades a purple hue are somewhat less common than the blue and green which the Order seems to favor.”  His brow furrowed, “I saw many… things, many _events_ while my spirit was one with the Force, but not all.  I do not know how your mother came about that crystal.”  Cas’s expression softened as he looked over Dean’s shoulder towards the lightsaber case.

 

Without hesitation, Dean turned, grabbing the case and holding it out in front of him, waiting instinctively for Cas to inspect it.

 

“This is the weapon of an experienced Jedi,” Cas said, gently flipping open the case, and removing the lightsaber.  He let it rest on his upturned palms as if he were holding it up for presentation, or inspection.  “Around the time a Jedi attains the rank of Knight, sometimes a little before or after, he or she will often construct a new lightsaber.  It often comes about as part of the formal trials or sometimes out of necessity, but most of these second sabers have something in common.  Under the current rule of the Order, Force sensitives are taken from their families as small children,” Cas paused again as Dean nodded.

 

“Yeah that was one of my dad’s biggest problems with them,” he acknowledged with a sad sigh.  In the six months since his father’s death, Dean felt he had healed little.  Every day the pain, shock, _disbelief_ was ever present.  There had been so little time to deal.  One minute Dad was there, and the next he was gone… it was the never seeing him before he died, never having a body to mourn that made it so difficult to process, move on… let go.  And ever since Dean had been moving, running, searching—never a moment to stay in one place and _feel_.

 

“But as a Jedi grows older, spends more time in the world away from the temple, it is common for the Jedi to reconnect with his or her homeworld to a certain degree.  Some Jedi will actually establish contact with their families, friends, villages or cities; others do not go so far, but become enamored with their cultural heritage nonetheless.  This learning, the self-awakening tends to manifest itself in the design of the lightsaber.”  As Cas spoke, Dean sensed him watching Dean’s expressions carefully.  Apparently content with what he saw, Cas held up the lightsaber in front of him, lifting his palms up and out until they were hovering in front of Dean’s bent knees.  He looked meaningfully at Dean, conveying his intent.

 

Slowly, Dean reached his hands out, letting them hover over the lightsaber that rested in on Cas’s palms.  He hesitated, steeling himself.  Then, with a slow exhale, he settled his fingers to rest on the lightsaber, feeling it, touching it, absorbing the lessons it had to tell.  “So,” Dean began, brow furrowing, “Mom built her lightsaber, the one _I_ have, after she was sent back to Toprawa,” he realized.  It was amazing how the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place; through the Force, he would receive images, knowledge, messages—sometimes he only gleaned the vaguest hint of meaning; other times it was as if a library’s knowledge files had been downloaded directly into his mind.  Dean felt his eyes instinctively slip closed; behind his eyelids, the images played out like a holovid on fast forward.  Gemstones.  Beaches.  Children playing.  Precious stones chipped from a rock outcropping deep in the forest.  Houses and people and joy and pain and loss and love—it was everything his mother had felt and thought and remembered when she built the lightsaber, and it was all flowing into Dean.  It was something so few understood, the slightest contact, the most incidental touch, could imbue an object, sometimes even a being, with an echo, an imprint, in the Force.  To the right individual, those echoes were transmitted and received like a holocomm call, downloading automatically when the individual reached the right perspective or achieved the right emotion.  “She took the blue stones from the beach she and Knella visited on their first assignment.  The pink stones were harvested from a rock outcropping she played on as a very little girl—that was where she first showed Force sensitivity, she and Knella slipped and… she caught them with the Force.  It was the one piece of her history that encompassed both her family and her Jedi heritage, so it was important that she put it in the lightsaber.” 

 

As Dean spoke, the words tumbled out with an almost echo, as if Mary’s memory was speaking through him.  It was a strange feeling to adjust to; when Dean received a Force echo, he would often _speak_ what he saw and felt before he really _absorbed_ it, so in a way he was telling a story he did not yet know.  As the images tumbled by he felt himself getting lost in them.  His entire life he had missed his mother, clinging to the memories, hating himself for needing them; feeling weak because he couldn’t let go and push his thoughts of her away… like Dad had… all the while never knowing her memories, her history, was right there, in everything she had touched and loved, just waiting for him to access it.

 

The first time it happened, after _Manaan_ —after Dad died and Sammy died and came back and his universe tilted 180 degrees on its axis—Dean had rested his hand on Chevy as they staggered back to the _Dream_.  He’d been resting his hand on Chevy the whole way back out of the docking bay and down the long corridor, carrying the Ysalimir on its frame, when he had stopped, exhausted, suffering from the near-overwhelming disorientation Ysalimiri Force-bubbles cause in Force-sensitives.  Bobby had come up to him looking haggard and shocked and sorrowful, and he had offered to take the lizard from Dean.  At first Dean had resisted, but then Chevy had given off a long, low, disapproving warble, and he’d acquiesced.  Just as Bobby disappeared up the _Dream_ ’s boarding ramp with the lizard in tow, Dean fell out of the Forceless sphere of influence, and it hit him.  It wasn’t _just_ Mom’s memories he picked up; his and Sam’s and Dad’s were mixed in the jumble that had made him gasp out loud and stagger to his knees, but underneath it all had been memories of Mom and him—working on Chevy, upgrading Chevy’s programming or circuitry on a sunny Saturday afternoon, sharing stories, playing with Chevy’s holoprojector—all underscored by an overwhelming sense of love and pride that had brought tears to his eyes.  He’d never understood how much his mother had loved him, and even now he still sometimes had trouble believing it.  Since then Dean had learned better to control it, he was more or less able to turn it off or on, unless…  Unless the Force imprint was so intense it bowled over his defenses as if they were made of flimsi, or unless… unless he let himself get lost on the river of memories too emotionally entangled to draw himself out.

 

“Dean… _Dean_ ,” Cas said, voice becoming more Forceful as he spoke.  Suddenly, Dean could feel Cas’s fingertips curling up and closing over his wrists, pulling him back to the present.

 

Dean’s eyes fluttered open, the last _important_ message from his mother’s memories spilling freely from his lips.  “The crystal, it’s rare, maybe unique, not an ordinary gem from Ilum… Master Joran gave it to her when she passed the trials, told her to keep it, save it, for when she was ready to build a new lightsaber, a better lightsaber.”  He was breathing hard, feeling overloaded from the images and emotions. 

 

Even in the short time he’d been managing his _ability_ he’d discovered that reading impressions left by someone else was always… strange, because they weren’t _his_ emotions or responses; sometimes the jumble of sensory and emotional data just didn’t compute.  Not long after Sam had up and disappeared, Dean had tried to drown his sorrows by drinking his weight in lum at one of the cantinas in Anchorhead.  His psychological shields had been pretty much nonexistent and his control on the Force, already quartered by his emotional state, had pretty much chucked itself out the nearest airlock after his third shot.  In this particularly _uncontrolled_ state, he’d wound up sitting on a barstool where a Gand findsman working as a bounty hunter had once lain in wait for his quarry.  Dean had been so completely overwhelmed by the volume of information his body simply could not translate—everything from images in the ultraviolet spectrum to the feeling of _not_ breathing—that his conscious mind had shut down and he’d wound up in what Cas had called a Force-coma for the next day and a half. 

 

Opening himself to his Mother’s imprint wasn’t as intense or well— _alien_ —but it was overwhelming and challenging in its own way.  He had _known_ and loved his mother.  He had mourned her death.  He had missed her most of his life.  To be, all of the sudden, experiencing her life from her perspective was both thrilling and terrifying and got all tangled up with his _own_ emotions and memories about her, making the combined experience hard to process.  So Dean took a few moments to steady himself, practicing the breathing exercises Miss’Ouri had taught him, grounding himself on Cas’s presence.  Slowly, carefully trying to assimilate the new information.

 

When Cas finally spoke, breaking the silence, his voice was low and quiet, carrying with it a hint of wonderment and awe, “When a Jedi gives his lightsaber to another, he creates a sacred bond between them.”  He paused, letting the words sink in. “Your mother left that lightsaber for you...”

 

Dean’s head shot up, his eyes widening. “But she couldn’t have; those were mementos, parts of her past she wanted to save because they were meaningful, and in case she ever needed them again— She couldn’t have left them for me, because she didn’t know!” The last words burst out explosively, taking Dean by surprise. He was equally perplexed to find he had jumped to his feet and was pacing back and forth across the relatively cramped space of the cabin. He wasn’t sure if it was his own emotions or his mother’s or the combination of the two that was driving his response.  He felt wildly out of control and… _unbalanced_ —a particularly terrifying prospect given the way the unbalanced, disintegrating Force flowed through him at all times.

 

On the other hand, Cas seemed completely unsurprised, nonplussed by Dean’s reaction.  He was looking up at Dean with heavy-lidded eyes, an amused, if resigned, smile curling up the corners of his lips.

 

“Your powers were not bound in the same way your brother’s were,” Cas continued, voice steady and clear, his eyes never leaving Dean as Dean continued to tread back and forth across the room; “Mary could sense the Force in you. After her experience with Darth Azazel on Courkrus, she learned things, studied. When she recorded her holocron, she didn’t know who she was leaving it for, only that it was important. But the moment you were born, she knew.”

 

“What!” Dean exclaimed, “What did she know? Did she know I was the Healer? Did she know I was doomed to feel all the suffering in the universe? To feel the Force being torn apart, and day after day after day it just keeps getting worse? That the only way I would be able to make it stop would be to kill my own brother—her _son_? Did she know that?”

 

Cas’s smile fell, his features becoming solemn, pained.

 

Dean flinched, doubling over.  He clutched at his stomach as the pain—the same pain that greeted him upon his awakening—returned.  The _tearing_ sensation as the Force pulled farther apart, twisting and shredding as it went.  He panted, sucking in huge gulps of air trying to steady himself, _breathe_ through the pain.  It was almost ironic, he could heal himself and others because of how easily the Force flowed through him, but as the Force itself was damaged, he couldn’t call on it to help, because _it_ was hurting _him_.  He stared at his bare feet, trying to focus on the ragged edge of one toenail to distract himself from the emotional turmoil that had set everything off.

 

“Mary knew you were special, important,” Cas said quietly, “As far as I know, she was not aware of the specifics of the prophecy about the Healer.”  He sounded honest; there was no hint of deception or _distancing_ language that might mean Cas’s words were _technically_ true… but only if you looked at them through a telescope while standing on your head.

 

Dean looked up, still hunched over, bent at the waist, one hand resting alongside his thigh; the other clutching at his clenching stomach.  He wiped a string of saliva from his lips with the hand that had been clutching his belly. Well, Cas didn’t _look_ like he was lying either.  His eyes were clear and blue and locked steadily with Dean’s.

 

“Did,” Dean panted, tamping down the near overwhelming surge of emotion and imagery that threatened to accompany his words and send him careening to the deck and vomiting from the pain.  “Did Mom know…. or, or… _suspect_ that I might be the Chosen One… or Sam?” he managed to stammer out.

 

Cas’s brow furrowed a little.  “She thought about it… thought about it _more_ when Sam was born,” he paused, brow creasing more.  “But she didn’t think it was _you_.  She didn’t understand what you role was, but she knew you were special, unique.”  Cas might have been repeating himself, but at least this time Dean felt the words sink in.

 

Dean breathed, swallowed, slowly pulled himself to a stand.  “And you think she left it for me?”

 

“Search your feelings, Dean, you know it to be true,” Cas implored.  “You _knew_ that you needed to visit your old house, you knew that you had to see what remained, and you knew that those safes were for you to find; that’s why you didn’t share them with Sam.”

 

 _She would have wanted you to have them, when you were ready.  And now you’re ready_.  Miss’Ouri’s words echoed in Dean’s mind.  He’d known the truth in them then, and like it or not, he recognized it now.

 

“Dean,” Cas began again, gracefully unfolding his legs and placing the lightsaber gently on the mattress, as he pushed himself to a stand with his hands.  “Sometimes the Force shows us things, directs us, guides us, and we know to follow, but we don’t necessarily understand _why_ …”  He let his voice trail off, looking to Dean for permission.

 

Dean was still standing awkwardly rigid in the middle of the cabin, his hands clenched to fists at his sides, his breath still uneven and ragged as the pain slowly, very slowly, receded from an acute burn to the constant low-grade gnawing ache that seemed to accompany him wherever he went.  He let out a sigh and nodded in agreement.  Frustrated, angry he might be, but he wasn’t angry _with Cas_ … he was just the messenger,

and like it or not, he was stuck with his own special role just like Dean, and had made enormous sacrifices for it already.

 

“Your mother,” Cas said as he stepped towards Dean, moving with silent footfalls across the cool decking, “I do not know how much she knew, only that she left this lightsaber for you, wanted you to have it, knew you would need it, entrusted you with it…. and that,” he said, standing in front of Dean, tapping Dean under the chin with his right hand, encouraging Dean to look up, as he slipped his left hand around Dean’s waist, pulling him close.  “That creates a sacred bond between you… the power your mother imbued her lightsaber with, some of that is passed to you, so it will _respond_ to you, be a part of you, much as if you had built it yourself.”  His tone was reverent and serious, but reassuring.  And when he leaned forward towards Dean, Dean relaxed, releasing some of the tension the Force placed on him, letting Cas shoulder some of the burden, as he parted his lips and settled into the kiss.

 

He chased Cas’s tongue around his mouth, settling into the soothing contact of skin on skin, feeling the Force flowing between them connecting them, sharing thoughts and emotions, breathing in sync…  Dean wasn’t sure he would ever get used to it, but it felt right and he _needed it_.  Without Cas—being the Healer was a burden he could never survive alone.  When Dean finally pulled away, looking deep into Cas’s eyes, panting from the exertion, he saw the spark of understanding there that made him think back on their conversation and the vision and everything that had triggered his little breakdown.  “It means something, something important that she left it to me… that I have this lightsaber and not Sam?”

 

Cas sighed, pressing a chaste kiss to Dean’s forehead.  “I do not know how Sam came across your mother’s first lightsaber.  That… concerns me.  But the difference is that lightsaber wasn’t left for him.”  He stroked Dean’s cheek, tiny calluses rasping slightly against Dean’s stubble.  “He can wield it, use it,” his voice cracked, “but it will never be a part of him, an extension of his being in the force the way that _this_ lightsaber is for you.”  As he spoke, he pulled his hand from Dean’s cheek gesturing towards the bunk where the intricately detailed lightsaber now lay.

 

Dean took a deep breath, absorbing the new information.  _What do we do now?_   The question crossed his mind, and he could sense that Cas ‘heard’ it too, the words traveling through the Force and drifting across the synapses in Cas’s brain.  When they were this close, there wasn’t much they didn’t share.  It was a natural part of intimacy, Dean had discovered, and nothing like the _intrusion_ that would have been required for Cas to glean thoughts from his mind after he’d awakened from the vision.

 

 _We need answers_ , Cas thought, the faint lines around his eyes tightening with worry.  Dean experienced it more as images, impressions, and emotions than words, but the meaning was clear.  Even with his past as a millennia-old Force-ghost, Cas didn’t have all the answers.

 

Moving his left hand up to press against Cas’s chest, soaking in the vital warmth and steady thumping of Cas’s heart, Dean spoke, focusing on the one mystery that just might give them a good place to start, “We need to find out how Sam got that lightsaber.”

 

Cas nodded.

 

And in speaking it, Dean knew—he could _feel_ the dark, fuzzy edges of something looming and sinister—that the answer might just prove the key to actually saving the universe, and maybe even the key to saving—not killing—Sam.

 **~~~**

 **~~~**

 **Chapter 2:**

 _Ahto_ _City_ _, Manaan_ (six and a half months ago)

 

Jedi Master Gariq Shran looked up from the wreckage of what had once been a near-pristine landing bay in the abandoned Ahto city.  He set down the charred piece of paneling and stood, breathing in deeply.  His nostrils burned with the overwhelming stench of charred flesh and ozone, but he pushed past it, searching, feeling, reaching out with his senses—  _Ah, there it is_ …  The undeniable taint of the Dark Side. 

 

Shran slid into himself, making his awareness one with the force until he could _see…_   He could visualize the red and purple eddies of Dark Side energy swirling about the room.  But there was more than that…  Flowing and twisting from the outside in, coming from not one, but multiple points, were the light blue tendrils of light side energy, and in one spot a bright-orange corona around the mottled grey of neutral force, shining, hanging in the air as if something explosive had happened there, as if something had suddenly burst into being from nowhere.  It made no sense… but not as little sense as the sparking, red tears in time and space that crackled and sparked around the pulsating ruby echo that marked where not one but _two_ thought bombs had been and then disappeared, sucked back through the damaged fabric of the universe to whatever lay on the other side.  And then there was the deep blue river that ran through and around the room pooling in the center of the room alongside the source of the Light Side energy.  The river and pool were so dark, so deep a blue they were almost purple, more of an inky indigo in places.  He never seen or sensed anything like it, and he didn’t know what it meant.  Never…

 

No, that wasn’t quite right, not never.  Once he had read of such a phenomenon:  _The Healer_ , an individual so imbued with the force that it wielded not dark nor light nor neutral power, but the full spectrum of the force, all at once.  But it couldn’t be.  That tale was just that, a fable or myth promulgated by disillusioned Jedi and dreamers alike—people who believed the Jedi were doing wrong and that some _savior_ would come and restore the force.  Whatever _that_ meant. 

 

It wasn’t a real prophecy, not even like the lost prophecy, the piece of blasphemous history very few in the Order were given the burden of knowing.

 

Master Gariq Shran had been recruited into the rather uncommon role of Jedi Shadow due in part to the rare force talent he had discovered as a small child.  Through his connection with the Force, Master Shran could actually _see_ the Force, or rather the echo left by its use, as if it were a tangible object.  Every action, every Force-user, had a distinct pattern or signature.  With time, Shran had come to recognize the patterns that followed from use of common powers.  He could identify the Force-signatures of individual Jedi, and even some of the most dangerous Sith, the ghosts of whose feats remained long after the Sith themselves were gone.

 

But Shran could safely say he had never seen any of these Force-signatures before. And yet, there were _seven_ distinct signatures in this room, alone.

 

For that matter, he had never seen the Force manifest as a river or anything colored indigo.  The rifts were new too... but, while he desperately wanted to avoid the thought, both they and the Force-signature that seemed to appear out of nowhere, and the thought bombs were explained by the dreaded Lost Prophecy, a ghost from the Order’s darkest days that was born from unspeakable betrayal. He was one of a handful of Jedi who even knew of the prophecy’s existence, and he shuddered to think of the doom that was foretold if, by chance, the prophecy actually was coming true.

 

“Master Shran,” a quiet mezzo-soprano voice spoke up.

 

Her voice pulled him from the Force trance. Shran turned to face Canima Malae, the young Chandrillan human female Knight the Council had assigned to assist him.  He tried to soften his features when he saw the exhaustion and grimness hardening her pretty, olive complexion.  “Yes, Canima?”

 

‘We counted the bodies, Master, there are sixty-four.  I haven’t confirmed identities yet, but one of them is definitely Alderaanian Cultural Minister Antilles, sir.”  Canima brushed a hand across her forehead, “She’s still wearing her government ident badge.”  The young Jedi’s voice faltered and she stepped closer to Master Shran lowering her voice further.  “I recognize some of the others from the Missing’s Vigils that were broadcast on Chandrillan holonet channels.  They’re the same people who were taken...”

 

“Only we’re missing two,” Shran confirmed, his voice a low rumble.

 

“We’re missing two,” she echoed.

 

Budding awareness tingled at the back of his mind.  _It’s too much, too much to dismiss as coincidence_.  He shivered despite the humid sea air.  It had all started when that University of Coruscant student had dug up the Sith site… only that wasn’t true.  He’d seen the records as part of his training.  It all started when two—Mary Campbell and Knella Voss—went into a cave on Courkrus thirty-two years ago and only Mary came out alive, telling a tale that fit with the ancient accursed prophecy in eerie detail.  Neither Mary nor Knella had been entrusted with the knowledge of the Lost Prophecy.  He’d checked.  He _knew_ what this meant, but he still wasn’t ready to believe… not _quite_ yet.

 

“What does this mean?” Canima asked, her voice thick with frustration and fear.

 

“I do not know,” Shran answered, shaking his head.  “I do not know.”

 

Master Shran’s work was not done.  The bodies _were_ those of the hostages.  They had been killed by _Force Lightning_ , the acrid stink of the ozone it left behind a dead a giveaway as the dancing violet lightning bolts he could sense over each of the bodies.He had only progressed through about one third of the bodies when he felt a sensation, a sickening tug that made his skin crawl as it stole his breath. It felt like his stomach inverted and clenched, and as he dropped his hands on his knees and willed himself to not be sick, he felt it.  The echo of a soul stripped of life without reason.

 

The sudden shift from life to nothingness trapped in eternal torment.  He knew that feeling, but only from the descriptions and impressions several of the ancient Masters and Knights left on there holocrons.  It was the Force-echo of a soul ensnared by a thought bomb.  It made sense, after all, he’d seen the impressions of _two_ thought bombs earlier when he’d reached out with his senses.  But... he’d seen the rift too. The _prophecy_ , he shuddered to dignify it with acknowledgment, said the Sith had hidden—trapped—the thought bomb within the Dark Side. That would explain the rifts (as much as anything could), but the echo he’d just felt was clear... someone had been killed here to create a thought bomb.  Not the hostages, as it appeared the 64 dead bodies were indeed those of the innocent civilians the Sith had taken from Naboo, Chandrilla, and Alderaan, but someone else.  Someone… _familiar_.

 

He straightened up, long, black robes billowing in the breeze, and glanced around.  His team was busy cataloguing the evidence—examining and identifying bodies, cataloguing the electrical and carbon scoring along the walls and ceiling, taking force readings, making holo recordings, analyzing and logging the possible trajectories and destinations of hyperspace signatures in system.  He was pretty sure one of the RI agents who was assigned to his detail was even negotiating with the Selkath about maintaining Ahto City as an active crime scene.  In other words, they were all distracted.  His abilities weren’t a secret, _per se_ , but he and the Order didn’t exactly go out of their ways to publicize them either.  Better the Dark Side didn’t know the full range of weapons the Order could array against them.  Satisfied, he closed his eyes and reached out, once more slipping into the patterns and streams of the Force. __

The Force surrounded him.  He saw many of the same signatures as before, but now he was looking for clues… anything he’d missed, anything he might have seen before.  There.  In the same spot he’d felt the echo of the trapped soul, he saw a blue ripple.  There _was_ definitely something familiar about it.  It didn’t belong to any _Jedi_ he knew, but yet, he’d met the owner before.  It lacked the definition found with formal training, yet it was strong, certain, resolute.  Whoever it belonged to had died here.  But they had died with a purpose.  It made no sense—Thought Bombs were _supposed_ to take many Sith Lords to create.  Even when the—  _In the Order’s darkest day, it had still required the strength of three Jedi Masters to seal Lord Azazel’s fate._

 

Shran observed the rivulets of blue, fluttering like waves on the breeze.  _Sacrifice.  Love for another.  Love for a_ son, the Force whispered to him.  Yes, yes, but that wasn’t what he recognized.  No, it was _desperation_ infused with a stubborn disregard for the limitations of reality and a stealthy chameleonic mimicry—the person—man, father, he surmised—who had died here had developed his powers without realizing what he was doing because he had a natural talent for defiance.  He would _insist_ and refuse to believe and the Force would bend to his will.  He was a natural at becoming other people.  Likely he’d gone undetected by the Council because he never seemed to be the same person twice.  Like the river his signature so closely resembled, he was constantly changing.  To most Jedi, even most Shadows, he probably would have appeared as a dozens, maybe hundreds, of different unidentified Force-users, never sticking around long enough for detection and never sensed again.  Most Jedi were not Gariq Shran.

 

He shifted, examining the ripples from another angle, a different perspective.  There was something jagged, angular, as if the Force itself was trying to escape.  That.  That he recognized.  Drifting deeper into his Force trance, Shran focused on the distinctive elements concentrating until nothing remained but him and the sparking, sparkling, edge of the signature together alone in the blackness.  Once the link was formed, he let go of his connection to the present and allowed himself to slip into memory, following the threads to the time and place he’d seen them before.  Piece by piece surroundings materialized out of the darkness…  Bright light.  Height.  The tingle of antiseptic in the otherwise florally fragrant and humid air. A tall white room.  Windows.  Voices.  People.  Anguish.  Confusion.  It was a hospital after a tragedy and there, darting around the corner and into the closing doors of a waiting lift…  The man had _sensed_ him.  He’d recognized the man and it was…  _John Winchester_.

 

Shran had a split second of crystal clarity before the connection snapped suddenly and propelled him back to the present.  He didn’t slip out of the trance though; he was just back in the docking bay on Manaan _looking at John Winchester’s force signature, standing next to the place the man had sacrificed himself to save his son, dying at the hands of a millennia-old Sith Lord wielding an unconventional Thought Bomb_.  He didn’t want to accept it.  It went against everything the Order believed to be true, but sometimes the force was so _insistent_.

John Winchester had been on Naboo when the twenty-two were kidnapped.  He’d been using a fake name, but Shran had dug around until he identified him… Winchester _had_ been in the Support Corps, so identification was not that difficult.  It was John Winchester who had posed as an RI agent—convincingly too—and investigated his the fire in his _son_ ’s apartment… his son, whose girlfriend had uncovered the relics of the Lost Prophecy.  _Could it be that simple?_ he wondered. 

 

Maybe there was nothing special going on.  Jessica Moore found the relics.  Some _Sith_ came looking for her.  Sam Winchester escaped, his father was worried, angry, and he got mixed up with the same Sith and eventually died by its hand?  No.  There was more to the story, perhaps far more than the Council would want to hear.  He couldn’t share this with anyone.  Not yet.  But he definitely needed to learn more about John Winchester.

 

“Master Shran?”  Canima’s voice drifted across the Force to him, calling him back to the here and know of the physical world.

 

“Yes, Canima?” he asked, opening his eyes and turning to face her.  Canima looked _bewildered_.  Of course the situation was bewildering.  He’d identified _one_ force signature, but not the other _six_ that were present.  There were sixty-four dead bodies littering the room.  Two hostages missing.  Rips in space-time itself, and yet none of that had fazed Canima, not like this.  Shran steadied himself, bracing for whatever news she was about to share.

 

“Over here, sir, in the corner, it’s… rather than residual Force readings, we’re reading _no_ Force,” she answered, stumbling over the words, clasping her wrists in front of her as she spoke; it was a habit Shran had noticed, whenever she was particularly frustrated she took that pose.  Frustrated or unsettled.  “I don’t know how else to explain it sir, but it’s as if only a short time ago the area did not exist in the Force.”

 

“Didn’t exist?” he echoed, right hand sliding up to stroke at his chin in contemplation.  “Show me.”

 

“Certainly, sir,” she agreed, leading him over to a spot next to the curved white wall about three meters from where the docking bay was open to the air and sea below.  She pulled her DED from her belt and slowly swung it back and forth, side to side over an area roughly the size and shape of one quadrant of sphere.  The detector would chirp and crackle as it detected fluctuations in the Force but then the screen turned black, blinked, and showed up with an error message whenever she intersected the invisible contours of the quarter-bubble.  Inside it too, there was nothing.  Not even the background static of the Force that existed even in the most isolated reaches of deep space far from the known hyperspace lanes or the nearest living organism.  Just _nothing_.  The complete absence of Force.  He couldn’t contain the small gasp as it happened again and again:  Blink.  Nothing.  Error.  Then back to normal the moment the DED slipped out of the arced wedge.

 

“What’s on the other side of this wall?” Shran asked, after Canima had shut the detector off and put it away, clipped onto her utility belt and hidden by the folds of her robes.

 

“There’s another bay on the other side of the wall,” she answered, looking back at him. “Why? Do you think it’s coming from the wall? Or something in the other bay?”  Her features were scrunched up with confusion.

 

“I’m not certain,” Shran answered honestly. _But I have a theory…_ “But I want to know the shape of this... bubble.”

 

Canima called out to one of the techs the RI had brought with them and asked the tech to send a team to the adjoining bay to determine what was there.  The tall Mon Calamari man acknowledged Canima’s request with a crisp salute and a curt nod and jogged out of the bay to investigate, DED in hand.  Shran knew the Republic Intelligence officers were somewhat _unsettled_ by the devices, but he had insisted that if they wanted to continue on the investigation, they had to carry and use the appropriate tools.  Of course, he was pretty sure it was really the Council’s way of keeping RI occupied and making sure they stayed off the Council’s backs and didn’t go sticking their collective nose in the _Order’s_ business.  Only, if the _prophecy_ was really in play, it wasn’t really the Order’s business… if the _Lost Prophecy_ came true, the entire _galaxy_ could be affected.  He pushed the thought aside and refocused on collecting evidence.

 

Within minutes Shran had his answer to what was on the other side of the wall: _nothing_.  The bay was empty—truly empty, not littered with bodies and debris like the main bay, simply deserted.  _And_ there was another, near-identical _absence_ in the force precisely adjacent to the Force-less bubble in the main bay.  “Can we map them?” Shran asked.

 

“Of course,” the tech answered, waving over the small, heavily modified, bronze-domed astromech RI used for intelligence gathering.  As the droid trundled over, the tech uploaded the readings from his and Canima’s DED’s to a datapad, and began constructing a 3-D image of the strange absence.  When it was ready, he uploaded the data from the pad to the astromech. “OK, RI-1, please project the anomaly.”

 

“It’s a sphere!” Canima gasped with surprise, examining the flickering orange ball that had sprung forth from the RI-1’s holoprojector.  It _was_ a sphere, or rather a little more than half of one.  The bottom was incomplete, cut off, but the rest of the anomaly mapped to a perfect ball, shimmering orange throughout with a very clearly defined boundary that delineated normal space from the area where the Force had been _missing_.

 

“RI-1, project one hundred percent size and align the projection with the anomaly’s coordinates,” Shran ordered, his hand once again stroking at his chin.  Sure enough, projection lined up as he expected.  The sphere cut off where it intersected the floor, and the center of the sphere appeared to be somewhere inside the main docking bay, and about half a meter off the ground.  “RI-1,” he started, “complete projection of a full sphere, and calculate its center; mark the center in blue.”

 

The droid chirped and complied, the projected image flickering briefly before steadying and stabilizing, a bright blue dot appearing at its center.  The sphere had a radius of about three meters, and whatever had been at its center had sat about a half meter from the floor and half a meter from _there_ side of the wall.  “Can we scan the floor, confirm the readings match the projected sphere?” Shran asked the tech, voice flat and even.

 

“Certainly, RI-1 is equipped—”

 

“Just have him do it,” Shran sighed, cutting off the over-eager tech, gaze focused intently on the projection.

 

“Certainly sir, scanning now,” the tech replied, turning to the droid.  “RI-1, please do as the Jedi Master asked.  Can you confirm the anomaly matches the projected sphere?”

 

The droid whirred for a moment, rocking back and forth on his treads, dome swiveling, before rocking forward in a close imitation of a nod and letting out a loud, low affirmative tweet.

 

“He says it matches perfectly, sir,” the tech replied.  “Do you know what it is?” he asked eagerly.

 

Shran looked up and shook his head, “No, but at least now we now whatever it is seems to carve a perfect sphere out of the Force.”

 

Both the tech and Canima nodded, seeming satisfied with his answer. 

 

“Can you both please resume scanning, see if we have any other anomalies in the docking bay, or anywhere else on Ahto city.  Map whatever you find.  I need exact coordinates, size, shape, anything you can think of, get the rest of team on it too,” Shran demanded.

 

The tech saluted and scurried away, barking orders at his fellow RI agents and technicians.

 

Canima, however, hung back, obviously not as easily distracted.  Frustrating, but good, after all, she _was_ a Jedi, and it was a sign of her skill and talent that she sensed Master Shran was dissembling.

 

“Yes, Canima?” he asked testily.

 

“Master, are you certain you do not know what caused this?  You seem… troubled,” she Replied hesitantly, her palms spread wide in supplication, head bowed towards the floor.

 

It was a sign of respect, and he was grateful for it.  Her respect for protocol might just give him the room he needed.  “No Canima, I don’t now what caused this.  There is a… theory… that has concerned the Council.  This anomaly _might_ , and I do mean _might_ , be tied to it, but I need to examine all of the possibilities before I come to that conclusion.”  He allowed his features to soften, “Anything you can find that might shed light on this would be most helpful to the Council.”

 

“Of course Master,” Canima answered, sounding surprised, yet relieved.  At least her force presence was now much less wary and distrustful.

 

Shran dismissed the young Knight with a nod.  When she had wandered a comfortable distance away, he returned his focus to the projected image in earnest.  There was something else he’d noticed about the spherical anomaly… it was _just_ over three meters from due north.  A person or … _relic_ standing at the compass point would have been just outside the sphere of influence.  He shuddered.  He still had to do more research, slip into another force trance, now that he knew what he was looking for.  But he had a gnawing suspicion he’d just stumbled onto evidence one, maybe even two, more pieces of the Lost Prophecy. 

 

This was real.  The Council could deny it all they wanted, but there was no doubt in his mind what was going on.  Shran turned away from the droid and his projection, eyes skipping across the now sheet-covered bodies strewn across the docking bay floor.  Lord Azazel had returned, and judging from the _sixty-four_ corpses, he’d succeeded in bringing two of his acolytes back with him.

 

He needed to return to Coruscant.  He needed to find out more about the prophecy, and about the Winchesters… and the Council would _not_ be happy.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 3:**

 _Nar Shaddaa, aka the Smuggler’s Moon_ (four months ago)

 

The dream woke him, like it always did. The lingering scent of cauterized flesh burning in his nostrils; the afterimage of a purple lightsaber buried in Dean’s chest, as Dean’s glassy, lifeless eyes stared up at him seared into the backs of Sam’s eyelids.  Sam bolted upright, sleep tunic and pants clinging to him drenched in sweat. He panted, heart racing as he worked through the breathing exercises Miss’Ouri had taught him. He pushed aside the pang of longing-loss-regret that threatened to overwhelm him when his thoughts drifted to Miss’Ouri Ot’Kla the Caamasi ex-Jedi and all he’d left behind on Dantooine. 

 

 _No. It isn’t safe!_   He missed Dean, his brother, and Chevy, their little astromech, so much it ached. Every day he walked around feeling like a part of him was missing. He hadn’t felt this way when he went off to study at the University of Coruscant, but then everything had been different. His father was alive, for one, and his righteous indignation over John Winchester _ordering_ him not to go (or to stay gone if he did), had blanketed him, providing comfort and reassurance that he was on the right path.  Normal.  Respectable. As far from hunting the relics and users of the Dark Side of the Force while trying to stay unnoticed by the Jedi as one could possibly get.

 

But now…  Now Dad was dead; his girlfriend was dead; he had Force powers; his brother was some mythical Healer with a re-embodied Force Ghost as his guide; and there was a 5000-year-old Sith Master on the loose, threatening to destroy the galaxy. A Sith Master who had set his sights on Sam.

 

Which was why he needed to stay hidden; as far away from Dean as possible.

 

The dreams—Force visions that plagued his sleep—had begun the night it had happened.  That night Darth Azazel, Dark Lord of the Sith, had slain sixty-six hostages collected from the worlds of Naboo, Chandrilla, and Alderaan in order to exact his revenge on the three Jedi Masters who had betrayed the Light Side five millennia ago and conspired with the clandestine support of the Jedi Council to use the most feared weapon of the Dark Side, the thought bomb, to murder sixty-six of Azazel’s most skilled and ardent supporters, trapping their souls for all eternity in a ball of pure Dark Side energy, where they were condemned to infinite torture. That same night, Azazel had forced John Winchester, Sam’s father, to sacrifice himself, killing John with another Thought Bomb and using his death to open a rift in the Force, through which he could retrieve the Thought Bomb that contained the souls of his followers.  Sam, his brother Dean, and their faithful friend Bobby had figured out Azazel intended to use the bodies of his victims to host the Force-ghosts of his followers. They had _almost_ succeeded in stopping him.

 

Almost.  Dean and Bobby were placing the last of the runes when Sam’s control had slipped.  He’d been trying to keep the Thought Bombs—the ancient one Azazel had freed from the Force and the new one that contained John Winchester’s trapped soul—from touching so Azazel could not force the two energy spheres to swap places. But Sam had been overcome by the desire to free his father, and while he had succeeded, allowing John’s soul to cross over and be one with the Force, indulging the temptation had allowed Darth Azazel to free two of his followers.  And then one of them had killed Sam.

 

He’d felt it, dying, more like a continual expanding, slowly spreading out and sinking down into the Force.  It had been peaceful, beautiful, and his only regret had been leaving Dean alone, especially when the task of facing and stopping Azazel was unfinished.

 

But then he had been called back; awakened.  His eyes had fluttered open again, and he’d felt air flowing through his healed lungs, and there was Dean, looking down at him. That’s how they’d found out Dean was the Healer the Prophecy had foretold.  The one who was supposed to be able to defeat Azazel once and for all.

 

But the dreams had started. Painful, awful dreams filled with blood and death and screaming. At first, Sam had believed he was reliving Azazel’s past crimes.  And maybe those first few nights, when he’d woken shaking, horrified by the scenes behind his eyelids, comforted by Dean and Cas—the re-embodied Force-ghost sent to train Dean—they had been just that.  But then they’d turned darker, haunting, and Sam had seen himself committing the dark acts.  Slicing through groups of people with a purple lightsaber; shooting bolts of crackling, blue lightning from his fingertips.  Death and destruction, all by his hand.  He’d watched the people die and seen the buildings topple and crumble, and in the dream he’d _liked_ it.  Felt glee and joy as he drained a Jedi’s life.  Basked in the fear and adoration of the masses who revered him as a god.  Relished in the limitless power the Dark Side provided. And all the while, he could feel Darth Azazel calling to him—sometimes from have a great distance, at other times from inside his own mind.  The Sith Lord spoke to Sam’s pride, his anger with his father, his sense of special uniqueness... all the parts of Sam that were hidden away, always there, but carefully tucked away under the surface.  Azazel cherished Sam in his uniqueness: wanted him, darkness and all.

 

At first, Sam had gone to Dean and Miss’Ouri, terrified. He wanted to know if the dreams were just nightmares or maybe even insights provided by the Force—windows into Darth Azazel’s mind. Or were they something more sinister—visions of _his_ future filled with messages from Darth Azazel himself.  No one had known.  But they’d been scared, and not just _for_ Sam, but of him as well.  And that’s when he knew, with that cold, dark certainty that only the Force could provide, that he was seeing the man he was destined to become.

 

He tried to get Miss’Ouri and Dean and Cas to understand.  He had really hoped—had faith even—in Dean, that maybe it could be like when they were kids and Dean would take care of everything, fix it; make it better.  Sam thought for sure Dean at least would realize that Sam needed to do anything and everything he could to stop his visions from coming true.  That meant figuring out Darth Azazel’s plan, finding him, and stopping him—killing him once and for all.  After all, back on Manaan he’d almost pulled Azazel’s spirit from his host’s body.  Sam was confident that given another chance he _could_ do that.  No, it wouldn’t necessarily _kill_ Azazel, but Sam was willing to try anything.  After all, if _Dean_ was facing images of himself turning into a monster, if _Dean_ had some horrible destiny hanging over his head, well, Sam would stop at nothing to save him.  So Dean would do the same for him, right?

 

Not so much, Sam discovered.  Since no one knew a surefire way to kill an ancient, disembodied Sith Lord, Sam started doing some research, using Miss’Ouri’s holonet connection as a starting point; Miss’Ouri even gave Sam some tips on where and how he might access more information on the Prophecy and other Sith and Jedi Archives.  After a few tries he found a lead… some Sith scholar thirty-five hundred years ago had left a holocron that discussed how to trap and bind an enemy’s soul in a rune or other artifact.  Someone else had studied the holocron and recorded their findings in a journal, which was what Sam found and read.  He wasn’t sure it would work—after all, it wasn’t a permanent fix, and Azazel had likely done something similar _to himself_ to maintain his connection to the physical world and use it pull the remainder of his soul back from where it had been one with the Dark Side of the Force for five thousand years.  But Sam was willing to bet that with a little more experimentation, maybe using something already powerful and sacred like the Runes they’d used to attempt to trap Azazel and dampen his power in the first place could be used to house his soul… or maybe they could just try using the Runes again.  Either way, that should at least by them some time.  So, Sam brought his ideas to Dean.

 

Only Dean seemed worried, horrified even, instead of encouraged, and insisted on running everything by Miss’Ouri and Cas, who both agreed with Dean that it was a bad idea.  Too dangerous.  They could try the Runes again, yes, but if Azazel wanted Sam for something—and they still weren’t entirely sure what—it wasn’t a good idea to have Sam near him, and they weren’t really sure if Dean or Cas or Miss’Ouri could work with the Runes, since the Runes were supposedly linked to the power of the Chosen One, to Sam’s _Force-signature_.  And _corrupting_ a Rune by using it as a prison for Azazel’s soul was apparently some sort of unspeakable sin.  _It’s the same sort of behavior that got the whole universe into this mess,_ Miss’Ouri had said.  _That’s the same attitude the Jedi had when they thought it would be a good idea to trap Azazel in a thought bomb.  What they didn’t get, and you need to learn, is that kind of betrayal of principles unbalances the Force, and it gives more power to the Dark Side, which just makes Azazel stronger._

 **~~~**

 **~~~**

 **Chapter 4:**

(meanwhile) _Jedi_ _Temple_ _, Coruscant_ (four months ago)

Master Shran paced impatiently outside the door of the lift that would take him up to the Jedi Archives.  The impatience wasn’t like him; after all, Jedi Masters were expected to be calm, detached, at peace.  Normally, he was all those things, but not today, not _now_.

 

It had been two months since the Sith Massacre on Manaan.  Two months since he first sensed the strange indigo river in the Force.  Two months since the veracity of the so-called Lost Prophecy had become undeniable.  At first, he’d welcomed the challenge.  Shran wasn’t particularly thrilled that the prophecy arose from the single greatest failure of the Jedi Order—a complete dereliction of their commitment to the Light.  But those bad choices were made five thousand years ago, and what made Shran proudest of being a Jedi was the long, noble tradition of evolving for the better and learning from mistakes.

 

He’d been summoned by the High Council.  Grilled by Masters Zachariah and Uriel.  He explained what he’d seen, what he’d learned—how it led him to the strange, Force-repelling lizards on the distant planet of Myrkr.  How he’d found evidence there that associates of the Winchesters had visited the planet, not once, but _several_ times.  How everything he learned—including the existence of the lizards—kept pointing back to this vague, Lost Prophecy.  Put the facts together and it added up to the Prophecy existing.  It had to.  There was no other way to explain what was happening. 

 

It wasn’t just the strange readings on Manaan or the actions of the Winchesters.  It wasn’t just the murders and disappearances of dozens on Onderon, Naboo, Alderaan, and all the other planets the so-called Dark Lord of the Sith had visited.  It was more than that.  As he searched around the Republic looking for the Winchesters, searching for answers, he couldn’t help but notice the very strange things that were happening.  A preacher, vaguely fitting the description of the missing Senator from Naboo, only much, much leaner and more wizened-looking, had been going around to all the poor and far-flung planets—anyplace where the Republic was more a name than a presence, chances were, he’d been there.  Stories said he was preaching against the Jedi.  Criticizing them for taking the infants of good hard-working people to train as their own, but never delivering in their promises of justice and a fair, safe society.  He railed against the Jedi’s policies of not training older children and adolescents who were discovered to have Force Sensitivities.  It sounded like nonsense, but people were listening.  Especially because at every world this preacher visited, either just before or not long after, they were visited by not one, but _two_ individuals claiming to be Sith Lords.  There were stories of possession, torture, disappearance—and they were getting worse.  And so far, the Jedi hadn’t lifted a finger to stop it.

 

He knew—after all he’d been sending message after message, report after report back to the Council.  No backup sent.  No permission to investigate further.  The Council didn’t want to hear about the Sith or the Prophecy.  All they cared about were finding the Winchesters and learning more about the lizards.  He’d just left another Council meeting.  They were sending him out to Myrkr for more research.  From there he’d probably be sent out again on the wild kath hound hunt to find the ever-elusive _Iriaz Dream_ and _Hunters Folly_ or some sign of their occupants.

 

But first, he was going to satisfy his own curiosity—no his _need_ to know more.  For whatever reason, the Council _wouldn’t_ arm itself with knowledge.  Couldn’t seem to open its eyes to the truth.  A Sith Lord—maybe three—walked among them, sewing the seeds of destruction and downfall throughout the Republic.  Master Shran knew of one place he could learn more about the Prophecy, and he was going to learn it, even if he invoked the Council’s wrath in the process.

 

He stepped out of the lift as it swished to a stop.  Soon he was wending his way down the great corridor, passing the statutes of the Lost Jedi, those who had left the Order.  He reached the bust of Miss’Ouri Ot’Kla and stopped.  Her journals were still in the Archives.  He would find them, read them, and learn.  No matter what the Council believed, he had seen enough to know the truth.  The Prophecy was real.

 **~~~**

 **~~~**

 **Chapter 5:**

(later that day) _Ilum Jewel Casino, Nar Shaddaa_ (four months ago)

 

Sam glared across the large, circular table at his remaining opponents. It was down to the shrewd Devaronian, who sat opposite him, and the young—almost juvenile—Hutt to the Devaronian’s right. Everyone else had folded, run out of creds to gamble and property to bid and escorted from the premises. He waited, striving to remain patient on the inside while cultivating an air of anxiety and impatience for the rest of the world to see. Of course, right now he could almost taste victory, overlaid with pride and satisfaction at his opponents’ defeat. But he was going to lose his inner calm if the dealer droid didn’t hurry up and deal the next card already.

 

Sam didn’t really need the credits, not with the growing arsenal of “Jedi” tricks up his sleeve. But he had the skill and experience at playing cards—everything from the oldest versions of Pazaak to ordinary Sabacc to the version they were playing now—the newest craze in which the dealer dealt cards into a randomizer field each round to add an element of _thrill_ and extra suspense to the game. And now he had the Force powers to make him a serious contender. Depending on his opponents and the sophistication of the establishment he could count cards, make his opponents see what he wanted them to see (be it misfortunes they didn’t really have or his own imaginary winning hand), or sense when the randomizer was going to change. He’d learned early on not to play against Toydarians—even something as simple as a chance cube was a risk—the blue-skinned winged species was notorious for their ability to not only resist mind tricks but see through illusions as well. Hutts, like his opponent, young Darba, we’re resistant to mind tricks but not immune to less-invasive forms of Force persuasion. Still Sam was walking a fine line between fooling his opponents into thinking he was apprehensive about his hand and appearing _too_ fortuitous when he came up with the best hand possible...

 

All he needed to do was stall the call a little longer. The randomizer was building towards activation—he could feel the electrical surge building in its power circuits, knowing that when it let go, the next permutation of the algorithm would shift the five to a three, which would combine with the two and the least valuable card in the game—the Idiot—to create the Idiot’s array. It would trump even Darba’s hand of Pure Sabacc.

 

Sam sat back, frowning. It was ironic that he was here willingly playing Sabacc, enjoying it. He’d spent his entire childhood and adolescence despising the games and tricks John Winchester forced him to learn, hating the illegitimacy of the games and the income they generated, an illegitimacy increased tenfold by the illegal and barely legal trips and schemes his father had taught. Sam had spent his entire life trying to break away from the Hunter lifestyle, yearning for a reputable job, a normal life. And for four and a half blissful years, he’d had it. Only to have it snatched away in the most painful way possible. He blinked hard, shooing away the images of Jess burning, the apartment _melting_ around them, Jess’s screams, Azazel’s laugher. The searing heat…

 

He barely suppressed the involuntary shudder as he tossed his remaining spare card into the discard pile. He had always been good at Sabacc. He liked to think it was natural skill, and perhaps latent Force powers coming into play, and not the extensive training on his father’s part. John Winchester had started both his sons on the path to financing the Hunting lifestyle very early. Sam used to joke to his friends at the University—he flinched inwardly at the thought—that his father was only good for teaching is kids about the vices in life, and it was the most truthful thing he’d ever told them. Now, well on some days at least, Sam was willing to admit John had done more for them—loved his sons, tried to avenge their mother’s death, make up for all the evil and wrong in the universe, and it was the best he could do. Now that Sam had seen what was out there, after him. He was willing to cut John a little slack. But only sometimes.

 

Today was not one of those times. The dream had been especially vicious last night… this morning… whatever time it had technically been when Sam had last awakened sweating and panting, crying out in agony as he felt the rage welling up inside him. Watched himself killing Dean again, slicing through him with the purple blade of the lightsaber.

 

He didn’t have a lightsaber. Not yet. Hadn’t found the time or resources to build one… or at least that’s what he told himself. Truth was he _knew_ the Dream wasn’t a dream. It was a vision. He wasn’t going to rehash the hell he’d put himself through trying to argue with Miss’Ouri or Dean or his stupid _Guide_ Cas.

 

Sam was bitter about that too. Here he was, the supposed _Chosen One_. He’d stopped Darth Azazel from unleashing the combined power of his disciples into the Galaxy, and did he get any thanks? Understanding? Assistance? No. But Dean, who’d never even shown the ability to float a piece of flimsi went and rated himself a special _Guide_ to care for his every need and cater to his every whim. _Face it, Sam; you’re just bitter because he’s fucking Dean. Dean’s in love and you’re jealous because you wanted normal and instead you’re a blasted_ freak _and Dean’s got domestic bliss when he never even wanted it._

 

He shoved down the voice in the back of his mind, ignoring it. That kind of thinking didn’t serve him anymore. He needed to hone his skills, train, improve. Grow stronger and more powerful. If Miss’Ouri wasn’t going to train him, then he needed to teach himself, and making excuses for people wasn’t going to help.

 

Training, of course, was the big part of why he’d throw himself into the previously hated life of gambling. Why he was hiding out on _Nar Shaddaa_ of all places, his least favorite residence from his lost youth. The Smugglers Moon reeked with the stench of death, decay, and corruption. Refugees shoved into spaces too small, thrown away like so much garbage; smugglers staging petty turf wars as they schemed and gambled their way to an illicit living; the Exchange, Black Sun, and the other mafia organizations staging larger battles in their struggle to control the black market, not caring who got caught in the crossfire. It was a cesspool, a place only a hut could love. But it posed near-endless opportunities for Sam to test his skills—everything from Force projection to force-enhanced slicing to telekinesis to telepathy—he was gaining experience.

 

Today, maybe the payoff would be enough reward to compensate for the horror and disgust his recurring vision caused. He’d certainly have enough winnings to keep the _Folly_ —his father’s old ship—in prime condition.

 

“Place your bets,” the dealer droid said.

 

The Devaronian finally folded.

 

Sam went all in, carefully honing his look of overwhelmed innocence.

 

The Hutt seemed to be buying it, but he couldn’t be sure. At least Darba went ahead and placed enough of his credits n the pot that it would make winning this round decisive, and would provide a good excuse to call it quits for the day—as good as the experience was, he really needed to get in some physical training. The game had been going on for too long as it was.

 

The dealer droid passed out one more round of cards, just as the randomizer changed the values again the five shifting to a 3 just as it slipped into Sam’s hands.

 

“Go first,” the Hutt said magnanimously.

 

Sam shook his head in disagreement. “N—no you. I… I don’t want to know just yet,” he stammered.

 

The Hutt laughed, booming, deep, guttural, the tone far too big for such a relatively small slug. “Pure Sabacc,” he said, his giant mouth growing wider in the Hutt version of a grin. “I believe I’ll be taking these,” he added with a mirthful chuckle.

 

“Not so fast, Master Darba,” the dealer droid interjected, raising a shield between the Hutt and the hand and Sabacc pots, preventing Darba from accessing them. “We must see what young Master Samwin has.”

 

Sam sighed wearily, looking expertly flustered. He hadn’t looked at the card the Dealer had given him. He _shouldn’t_ know it had changed (except he did) or what it had changed too. “I—I’m afraid I don’t have much. Just sev—oh!” he exclaimed as he laid his cards on the table seeing the three for the first time with his eyes rather than the Force. “I—the value changed! Oh—oh my. Oh—”

 

“Master Samwin has won. The Idiots Array beats Pure Sabacc,” the droid said as he reached out with claw-like hand and raked the cards towards him, making sure the Hutt and Devaronian both had a clear view of the 0-2-3, as the hand was read. “Please collect your winnings. This round has concluded.”

 

Sam kept up the act of looking shocked as the hand and Sabacc pots were pushed towards him. He took the chips that could be cashed in for credits, looking at them with awe and surprise.

 

So far, so good. The Hutt hadn’t said anything.

 

“Dealing a new round. Players may stay in or re-join with payment of the 15,000-credit minimum.”

 

“I—I think I’ll be going now. This—my luck is never this good. Can’t jinx it,” Sam stammered as he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.

 

Darba made a dissatisfied sound, but made no outward sign of movement or interference.

 

 _Uh oh_ , Sam realized. Darba wasn’t going to move on him, but his goons were sliding into place, blocking Sam’s way out of the casino and taking position at the credit desk where Sam would cash in his chips. No way he’d escape this without some show of Force. And that was a problem, because Force-sensitives were highly suspect and sometimes outright banned from gambling establishments. Those with advanced Force skills were, in contrast, outright _banned_. If Sam got caught he’d either be looking at the business end of a shock-pike and the inside of a Hutt holding cell or dodging vibroblades until he made it off the planet. Neither option was particularly appealing.

 

He didn’t show his fear—or let on to his awareness of Darba’s minions. “I apologize, kind sirs, but I can’t let this luck turn. Never have I had so lucky a hand,” he claimed as he gave the table another nod, and placed the chips in the proffered bag the dealer droid had produced.

 

Sam made it all the way to the credit desk and up to the front of the line before Darba made his move. A tall, muscular Falleen man in skin-tight nerfhide slid in behind Sam and jabbed him in the kidney with the business end of a blaster. “You will hand over your winnings to me, and I shall take them to my master,” the man growled in Sam’s ear as Sam passed the bag of chips through the window to the clerk.

 

Sam was looking for exits, strategies… ways to _accidentally_ incapacitate the Darba’s thug. Ways to slip out of the area unnoticed. The goons were closing off the exits though, and as the clerk passed back a flimsi receipt with his new credits statement printed on it, Sam felt his stomach lurch. There was no way he’d slip out of this undetected.

 

Only then, there was a blond woman dressed in red beside him, sliding in and disarming the Falleen. She moved so quickly, her hands were a blur even to Dean, but not so quickly the goons at the door didn’t notice and try to intercept her.

 

He gave an involuntary gasp—as did most of those waiting in line around him, and took the opportunity presented by the distraction to slip out of the line. He’d almost made it through the door the goon had left, when the goon’s companion stomped in front of him to block his way.

 

But then the blonde woman was brushing past him and knocking into everyone else as she fled the establishment.

 

Darba’s thugs were all knocked to the ground along with many apparently innocent patrons around them.

 

Dean used the distraction to slip into a different persona that he projected around himself and slide out of the door, following the blond woman in red. Something about her had… piqued his curiosity. He walked faster and faster, using the Force to track her through the busy, twisting alleyways of Nar Shaddaa. As he moved he stuffed the receipt bearing his winnings into the pocket of his slacks, the thrill of winning almost forgotten for the rush of the hunt. She was _calling_ to him in the Force, as if she was giving out a signal that was a beacon for Sam and Sam alone.

 

He began to despair as he reached a t-junction at the end of a long, narrow, crowded side-street, only to discover there was no sign of the woman. No sign and no smell and—somehow—no hint of her whereabouts in the Force.

 

But then—suddenly—she was slipping out from a shadowed doorway and taking him by the arm, pulling him inside.

 

“Wha—” Sam’s question turned to a gasp when he realized she was holding a lightsaber in her hand. The blade wasn’t extended, but the threat was very real. Sam found himself backpedaling, looking for any excuse to explain away his chasing her. “Look lady. I don’t know what you want—I don’t mean harm. Just wanted to thank you for taking out that nerfherder who was trying to steal from me,” he stammered.

 

“I know who you are, Sam Winchester,” she said portentously. “I know your history. I know your destiny. I know more about you than you know yourself. And I was sent here by the Force to guide you. I am the Messenger, and I have a gift for you.” At the conclusion of her speech, she held out the lightsaber pommel, extending her hands towards Sam and looking at him meaningfully and rolling her eyes when he didn’t immediately take it. “It was your mother’s,” she said.

 

Sam felt his hands close around the handle, lifting it from her upturned palms before he registered moving. “How is that possible? My brother has—” he started to say as he thumbed the switch to extend the blade.

 

Bright, shimmering, purple reached before him, humming in the dim light of the doorway. Flashes of his mother, visiting him in a dream. Her lightsaber had been purple. He’d seen this. And now it was here in his hands, given to him by someone who claimed to know about him. A messenger. Sent by the Force.

 

“Your mother had more than one lightsaber,” the blond woman said again, her voice quiet, almost a whisper. “This is her true blade, the one she made to become a Jedi. It is only fitting that her son, her heir, now possesses it.”

 

“How did you come about it?” Sam asked, unable to stop himself.

 

“It was entrusted to me by an old colleague. I visited the family of her old partner and explained I would present it to her son,” the woman explained.

 

“Oh.”

 

“And now I have.” She stepped closer, leaning into Sam’s space, forcing him to look at her. “My name’s Ruby, and I’m here to teach you. Everything you wanted to learn but that Camassi Jedi wouldn’t tell you? I’ll teach it. And in when you’re ready… you won’t be haunted by that vision anymore.”

 

Sam gasped again, despite himself. Stepping back towards the alleyway and thumbing off the lightsaber, plunging them into darkness. “How did you know?”

 

“Like I said. The Force sent me. You and me—together we’re going to turn this Galaxy around. Even gonna find Lord Azazel and his acolytes and put a stop to them for good.”

 

She sounded so sure of herself, Sam let himself believe. He gave in to the _need_ to have it all make sense. He didn’t know this woman—Ruby—but somehow, he trusted her. “Show me,” he said.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 

 **Chapter 6:**

 _Iriaz Dream, on approach to Courkrus_ (present day)

 

Dean let Cas lower him to their bunk. He was still trembling from the overwhelming emotional component of the visions—memories—his psychometric powers had revealed.

 

“Hush, Dean,” Cas whispered, pressing a kiss to his neck and sucking lightly on Dean’s pulse point.

 

The touch grounded him, centered Dean back in his body, gave him a point of reference, a refuge from the pain of the Force tearing him apart from the inside, flowing through him with such _strength_ he thought for sure it would tear him away—one day he would get caught in and eddy that would turn into a riptide and wash him far, far away. To another galaxy, maybe. But Cas’s touch—more or less the only skin on skin contact Dean could safely tolerate, well, aside from Sam, but… No. He couldn’t go there now. Cas’s touch had the power to keep Dean inside his own skin.

 

“Shhh,” Cas murmured again, sliding his hands gently down Dean’s sides to undo the sash that held his tunic securely wrapped around his torso. Seconds later, Cas’s strong, warm hands were stroking up and down Dean’s sides, transferring an echo of his and Cas’s combined thoughts and memories into his skin. It was… _soothing_.

 

Dean breathed more deeply, calming, as his heart rate slowed from the frantic beat of a cantina band drummer to something approaching a sedate waltz. He let himself be manhandled as Cas propped him up slightly to strip him of his unwrapped tunic and then unfastened his pants, slipping them and his underclothes off in one swift movement.

 

Cas was talking to him, his voice soft and melodious, its cadence lulling Dean further into a relaxed, meditative state, just slightly more aware than a healing trance. It was a technique they had begun perfecting in those first terrifyingly unbalanced days at Miss’Ouri’s on Dantooine, when the fragmentation of the Force had left Dean curled in agony in the ‘fresher, spitting up blood, while his Force powers spiked and fired at random. He’d had no control and no relief until one day, Cas had sat with him, rubbing his back methodically and just started talking about his childhood, about the Protectorate, about his first life, and waiting in the Force… waiting for Dean. It wasn’t the content of the _words_ that mattered, but the rhythm and cadence and the emotional intent. When he spoke like this, Cas helped Dean relax to a point where the Force flowed freely through their bond, sharing all their hopes and fears and feelings for each other.

 

“Cas,” Dean sighed at last, as he opened his eyes to find Cas similarly nude and reaching between Dean’s legs and back to his entrance, slick fingers pressing lightly, caressing, and seeking entrance. “I love you.”

 

“As do I love you, Dean,” Cas murmured back, smiling. He leaned down over Dean, pressing their bodies together skin to skin.

 

Dean let out a sigh of relief. He’d never understood how important touch—physical contact between sentient beings or well a sentient being and _anything_ —could be until he _couldn’t_ touch anymore, at least not with his bare skin, unless he wanted to risk potentially incapacitating memories accompanied by emotional transference. He looked forward to their time together—making love, sleeping, showering, cuddling—he didn’t care what terms he assigned to the behavior in his mind, because _any_ opportunity for contact was precious, both because he had contact so rarely, and because it was _Cas_.

 

He let out a sigh as Cas’s tongue plundered his mouth, seeking, searching, chasing his own tongue and tangling as they tasted and shared. At the same time, Cas’s finger breached him, siding gently inside his quickly relaxing ring of muscle and searching out that spot inside that held so much pleasure. Dean _shuddered_ and groaned with the first brush of Cas’s fingertip against his prostate. He’d seen holoromances and holoporn that had scenarios in which some improbably attractive man or woman had sex with a Jedi—crazy things with explosive orgasms, amazing Force-enhance muscles, and even non-contact sex where the Jedi would use telekinesis and thought projection to fuck their costar without even touching them. At the time he’d thought it was ridiculous because _everyone_ knew the Jedi prohibited attachments, and while there were some Jedi that had the occasional one night stand, the average person’s chances of hooking up with a Jedi of such _elastic_ moral interpretations were essentially nil. Of course that hadn’t stopped Dean from watching.

 

Now, of course, he understood that the real _ridiculousness_ of those smut holos was the complete lack of understanding of the _psychological_ and _emotional_ components of Force-sensitive sex. He and Cas’s minds were open to one another so completely that they could feel each other as themselves. It was as if every movement, thought, and emotion was felt, reflected, and amplified, echoed back across their bond. There was no question about how to move, or what would feel good. No doubt about their true intentions or feelings, it was all right there in his mind and body. For instance, he _knew_ that if he clenched his ass down hard on Cas’s finger, like he was doing now, that Cas would groan and then growl into his mouth—ah, there it was, which was inevitably followed by Cas pulling back and biting his lip, then sucking it _hard_ as he pulled his finger almost completely out of Dean’s body, teasing around the rim, before sliding back inside with two fingers. Dean knew Cas would do that, and Cas knew Dean would love it. And even still, they were constantly learning more about each other, discovering new depths of emotion and heights of sensation, bonding more fully and strongly, weaving their presence in the Force together.

 

And then again… sex with a true _Jedi_ , as in a member of the Order, would never be like this, because they shunned attachment as a danger… and in doing so, they denied themselves so much of the Force, so much understanding of the Universe.

 

“Please!” Dean breathed into Cas’s mouth, sliding his lips sideways and nipping along Cas’s jaw to his ear where he teased with his tongue, tracing the shell of the ear before dipping lightly inside and then sucking on the fleshy earlobe.

 

“Of course,” Cas groaned back, sliding his fingers out and immediately replacing them with his erection. He slid in slowly, giving Dean plenty of time to adjust, until he was firmly embedded, nestled between Dean’s thighs, connected in the most primal, intimate way possible.

 

They rocked together, breathing in sync for what felt like hours. They were flying through hyperspace and it would still be more than a day before they reached their destination, so time had little meaning. In an emergency, Chevy would alert them, but for the time being, they were content to slip into a much-needed trance.

 

Another thing _Jedi_ couldn’t do. This… bond trance, for lack of a better term, was a state they didn’t achieve often, but it was vitally important when they did, for it was the _only_ time Dean had real relief from the constant strain of the Force. With their connection open, and their bodies joined physically, and their minds joined and slipped into something like a healing trance wrapped in pleasure, Cas could actually take some of the Force into him, and they could share the healing efforts. As a result, Dean got a little respite from the pain, his body healed more fully than it did the rest of the time, and he and Cas were able to strengthen their connection, weaving it together more strongly as they basked in the pleasure and love.

 

Dean had thought Cas might not _want_ this when he’d first felt the overwhelming, at times unsettling, attraction to the Guide. He’d been thinking of Cas as a Jedi, not really understanding what the Protectorate was, or what five thousand years communing with the Force, seeing the mistakes of the Galaxy play out, and knowing there was someone the Force would _make_ for you—or that you were made _for_ —who you would eventually meet , would do to you. He wasn’t prepared for Cas to want him back. To give him this. To teach _him_ —Dean Winchester, who’d lost his virginity at fourteen to another Hunter’s son—so much.

 

Eventually the slow stroking and thrusting and rocking built and built until their breath quickened and their pulses sped and the rising tide of pleasure was too much to stave off any longer. They slowly drifted out of the trance, keeping their minds, souls, and bodies linked in the Force as they thrust harder and faster, Cas’s balls slapping against Dean’s ass with each stroke.

 

Cas smoothed his hands down Dean’s flanks and then up over his chest, reaching between them to squeeze Dean’s nipples hard, before sliding his hands down again to Dean’s hips, and running them along the outside of Dean’s thighs. Cas reached under and lifted up, easing Dean’s legs onto his shoulders. He kissed the inside of Dean’s knees, right then left, before bending down again and doubling Dean up, pressing himself back, legs and body folded in half. Cas adjusted his position and angle of thrust slightly so he was slamming into Dean’s sweet spot on every stroke building, building, until _finally_ they felt the pleasure flare in the connection between them and they both came hard—Cass pumping his release into Dean’s body with a shout, while Dean sprayed thick ropes of come between their bodies and let out a low, satisfied groan.

 

As they came down, they held each other, Cas staying inside for as long as he could. When Cas finally slipped free of Dean’s body, he stroked his hand along Dean’s cheek and pressed their lips together once more. Easing Dean’s legs of his shoulders, they separated, and Cas used the Force to summon a warm, moist cloth from the cabin’s ‘fresher.

 

Dean thought it was cheating, but he was still pain-free, and he knew from experience he could stay that way for another few hours, if he drifted into sleep quickly and didn’t really move. So, he let Cas clean them both before tossing the soiled cloth into the laundry chute with the aid of his telekinetic abilities.

 

Cas shifted around him, resettling them so he was spooned around Dean, who was flat on his back, and pulled the covers up over them both, without jostling Dean at all.

 

“Thank you,” Dean murmured. “For everything, for—”

 

“Shh,” Cas quieted him, “Rest my love… We will arrive soon enough, and continue our search for answers. Just rest; conserve your strength, and know that I love you.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Dean’s temple, and without further protest, Dean let go of his consciousness and slipped into a much needed, painless sleep.

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 7:**

 _Courkrus_ (present day)

 

Sam Winchester hunched into the shadows of the tapcaf.  He was partially concealed by the heavy wood of the booth and further hidden by the dim lighting.  Not many sentients were back here.  Still, he felt the need to pull his hooded cloak tighter around himself, sinking back into the recessed corner. 

 

He didn’t want to be seen.  Didn’t want to be recognized—not that anyone _should_ be able to see or recognize him here he was pretty sure even his brother hadn’t managed to track him to Courkrus, at least not yet.  Dean had been pretty persistent, and from what Sam could tell, was still plodding stubbornly along, just a few steps behind. 

 

It wasn’t that he was embarrassed to be here, nor was he ashamed to be seen with present company.  Contrary to what his brother thought, Sam was _not_ naïve, thank you very much, and he certainly knew that Ruby couldn’t be trusted.  But she _was_ necessary, and useful.  The prophecy could still be fulfilled, and Sam needed to know as much as he could, needed to _learn_ as much as he could to use against Darth Azazel.

 

Dean just couldn’t seem to see that _learning_ meant opening one’s mind to all possibilities and disciplines; learning about them wasn’t the same as wielding them.  Yet Dean had sided with Cas Tiel—he was falling into the same blind spots and adopting the very sanctimonious, controlling, blind, restrictive Jedi nonsense they had always supposedly condemned.  Sam let out an audible sigh, letting his hands drop down on the slightly sticky table before him.  Dean wouldn’t trust Ruby, wouldn’t _approve_ of what Sam was learning from her.  Well, Sam certainly didn’t trust Cas even—no especially—though the Jedi claimed to be the Guide mentioned in the prophecy.  So, Sam had left.  If he was such a threat—in that Azazel _still_ wanted him for something—he wasn’t going to hang around and put Dean in danger.  Especially not after they’d already lost their father.  Especially not after the dreams…

 

All the more, if Dean was going to try to stop Sam from doing what he needed to unravel this mess, Sam wasn’t going to hang around—he’d do it himself where Dean didn’t have to get his hands—or his conscience—dirty.

 

A lithe blond human clad in a red nerf-hid suit and shrouded in a matching nerf wool cloak was making her way through the crowd of sentients clustered near the entrance of the tapcaf.  She hardly blended in, but Sam had learned quickly enough standing out didn’t mean one got noticed.

 

“Took you long enough,” Sam muttered, barely moving his lips as Ruby slid into the seat across from him.

 

“Yeah, well, pulling details out of minds isn’t easy, yah know?  You should try it more,” she said shakily.  “Besides,” she added, tone softening as she took a long pull of the lomin ale Sam had ordered for her nearly half an hour ago, “these were trained Republic security, not exactly weak minds.”  Ruby gave a meaningful glance in the direction of the entrance.

 

“Well, Sam began, “did you learn anything?  Or was this just a fun exercise in yanking information from particularly stubborn subjects?”  Sam couldn’t suppress the wave of frustration and _rage_ that clouded his voice. 

 

“Calm down, buster.  You don’t wanna strain something,” she quipped with a hint of lasciviousness.  “Don’t worry; I got the goods.”

 

Sam said nothing, pinning her instead with a glare that clearly repeated the question, ‘well?’

 

“Azazel’s definitely here,” Ruby started, lowering her voice and sliding closer to Sam as she tapped her long fingers on the table between them.  “The Jedi must suspect it—RI’s practically been giving them autographed proof—but they seem hesitant to believe.  And whatever Azazel’s doing,” Ruby looked around, “it’s odd.  At least fifteen locals with signs of Sith possession, but no clear pattern.  It could be Azazel or his lieutenants who are doing this, but which isn’t clear.”

 

“Why would Azazel’s lieutenants want to possess others?” Sam asked, his voice deep and haunted.  “Wasn’t that the whole point of the hostages—his acolytes get fresh, shiny hosts free of any pesky living tenants?” Sam queried.

 

“Geez, Sam, back off a little and try not to ride me so hard,” Ruby responded with an eyeroll and another long sip of ale.  “I’m just telling you what I learned.  There’s the evidence—the signs of possession—but either he was in ‘em too long ago or for too brief a time, ‘cause I couldn’t confirm it was the same…demon.  RI is freaked, but they haven’t found anything that might explain what his purpose is,” Ruby concluded.

 

Sam let out a long, controlled breath, feeling the frustration pour out of him with it. He had come a long way in learning to control his emotions and the Force, in part thanks to what Miss’Ouri had taught him, in part thanks to Ruby, and in part on his own whims and intuition.  It was getting much easier, too, but sometimes the rage would overwhelm him, the need to find Azazel and destroy him, or the fear of what he would become, the constant terror of his dreams that played out behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes when his mind wasn’t sufficiently distracted.

 

“Maybe it’s not his lieutenants, Sam,” Ruby said, meaningfully.

 

“What?” Sam asked, racking his brain for any reasonable scenario in which another set o rogue Sith Force-ghosts would be running around the galaxy, on a dung heap like Courkrus of all places, and possessing people.  He wasn’t coming up with anything.

 

“Not other Sith, laser brain,” Ruby scoffed swatting Sam’s hand where it rested on the table.

 

He was still making a rather perplexed face if her glower was anything to go by.  _Then what?_ he wondered.

 

“Azazel,” Ruby answered, voice softening like she was taking pity on him.  “The possessions could all be Lord Azazel himself.”

 

“Huh?” Sam murmured, realization dawning on him.  “When was the last time someone reported a sighting of the Naboo Senator?  It’s been a few weeks hasn’t it?  He could be in a new host, and we just didn’t know about it.” Sam wondered why he’d assumed the Sith Lord wouldn’t e looking for a host himself—it was just that Darth Azazel had appeared to stay with the Senator’s body for so long—ever since he’d begun the second phase of his plan and began rounding up sacrifices—Sam had started to think it was permanent.

 

“Okay, Sam?  What’s with the glitbiter expression?” Ruby asked, scowling over the table at him.

 

Sam didn’t appreciate the comparison to a spice addict, but he had been drifting, lost in thought.  “I was wondering why Azazel didn’t take a new host—a permanent host—on Manaan.  He had all those— _bodies_ —I know his followers didn’t get released. We… I stopped that, but if he was going to change hosts, why not do it then?” Sam asked, downing the rest of his lomin ale and returning the glass to the sticky wooden table with a resounding thunk.

 

“I don’t know, Sam,” Ruby admitted, holding up her palms in supplication.  “But either Azazel is running around and trying out new hosts, or…” She paled.

 

“Or?” Sam queried, leaning forward on the table, trying to ignore the way the table stuck to his robes as his forearms stuttered, slipped along.

 

“Or we really do have another Sith spirit running lose in the galaxy,” Ruby admitted with a frustrated sigh.  She crossed legs and folded her arms across her chest.

 

So they were back to that unlikely hypothesis again.  Great.  “Would that even be possible?” Sam murmured aloud, half to himself.

 

“Hello, one ancient Sith Master back from the dead and on the lam already,” Ruby snarked, flipping out one hand and holding it as if it represented a basket on an antique scale.

 

Sam rolled his eyes.  “That’s not—that’s not what I meant, I mean… sure, possible, but probable?  Likely?  I mean if that _had_ happened, wouldn’t I or we or some Jedi have noticed—felt some,” he shrugged, “ripple in the Force or something?”

 

“Okay, you got me,” Ruby sighed.  “No,” she shook her head.  “It really isn’t likely.  It’s probably impossible that something like that would go unnoticed.”  The ‘especially by you’ remained unspoken, but Sam understood it nonetheless.

 

“Well,” Sam continued thinking, “that means either Azazel is still looking for a new body, or one of his two acolytes is.” He ran a hand through his tangled hair, smoothing it off his forehead careful not to dislodge the hood in the process.  “Since the…” he struggled for the word, “symptoms… are so close to what we saw when Azazel was busy starting fires and rounding up sacrifices, I’m willing to bet it’s him.  Same hyperspace distortion…  Same weird reports of people losing time, acting strangely.  Plus, the follower have nice, shiny, new bodies and Azazel killed 66 people for them to get permanent hosts, so that makes no sense…”  His voice trailed off.

 

Ruby shot him a meaningful glance, her eyes shifting to the side of their booth that was exposed to the tapcaf proper.

 

Sam followed her gaze.  A sickly looking human male wearing the grey tunic of the establishment’s service staff was approaching.

 

With a silent nod to Ruby, Sam focused on the Force—in him and around him—drawing on it to disguise himself.  In his mind’s eye he saw himself as he wished to appear to observers—a tall, thin Duros wearing a nondescript, hooded cloak and travel-worn clothes; someone forgettable, just passing through, as calm as would be expected from a traveler on Courkrus during these times.  Once he could see and sense the image, he projected it out, concealing himself, brushing against the minds of others—first Ruby, then the approaching server, and finally everyone else within visual range.  He did it slowly, carefully, kinda like easing open the throttle on a landspeeder so he wouldn’t buck forward—he didn’t want to draw anyone’s attention or make the change in his appearance obvious.  No one other than Ruby should have been close enough to notice the change, at least not in _this_ dim light.

 

“Nice,” Ruby murmured, appreciatively, taking in Sam’s projected appearance and giving him a sly grin.

 

The lascivious glee in her eyes made Sam’s stomach twist unpleasantly. 

 

“Can I get you anything else?” the server asked, holding up a scratched, chipped datapad, and speaking with a cracking-rough voice as he sidled up to the open end of the booth, trying to appear friendly.  The man was young—Sam’s age maybe—with ragged, slightly greasy hair and deep, dark circle under his eyes.  He moved with a general air of exhaustion that radiated off of him so strongly, Sam had to carefully control the urge to flinch.

 

“We’re fine, thanks,” Ruby answered, honey sweet.  She raised her glass and took a long sip, smiling at the server.  “Still enjoying the last round.”

 

Sam agreed by means of an appreciative nod.  He still wasn’t confident he could pull off projecting Duros-accented basic, so he tried to avoid speaking when it was unnecessary.

 

The server smiled nervously, fingers still twitching over the pad.  “You’re not from here, are you?” he asked knowingly. 

 

Sam shook his head “no.”

 

“No,” Ruby confirmed aloud.  “Why do you ask?”  She cocked her head to the side and leaned back against the high-backed bench seat, her movements fluid, enticing, skewering the server with an overly inquisitive stare.

 

The server fidgeted, shifting back and forth on his feet.  He looked back and forth from Ruby to Sam and back again.  “Well, for one, I don’t recognize you, and not many people come here that aren’t regulars.  For another, Courkrus isn’t really a tourist destination,” he looked around the dusty, smoky, room and confirmed no one was looking their way, “especially not these days.”

 

“Whatever do you mean?” Ruby asked, such an excessive show of faux innocence, that Sam had to stifle a snort in his fist.

 

The server looked at him skeptically with a raised eyebrow.  “Well, there have been… happenings around here.  People going crazy.  All different people, all different species.”  He shook his head at Sam as if to say ‘it’s not just a human thing’ and turned his charms back to Ruby, leaning into the booth.  “Some of the old timers,” he glanced left and right again, “they say it’s _demon possession_.”  He exaggerated the words, the devilish glint in his eye suggesting he thought it was nothing but talk, and highly suspicious crazy talk at that.

 

Ruby gasped, actually drawing her right hand over her mouth in ‘surprise.’

 

Sam thought it was completely over the top, but she had apparently drawn the server in, if the way he rested his elbow on the table and leaned over Ruby was any indication.  “Yeah, they say it’s some kind of Dark Wraith the comes out of the shadows of the caves and possesses people—makes them do evil things, crazy things, and then it just,” he made a fluttering motion with is hand, shooting it up towards the ceiling, “flies away, leaving them with no memory of what happened.”

 

“Is that so?” Ruby asked. 

 

Sam was becoming mesmerized with her charade.  Even if she was overplaying the sweet, flirtatious, innocent traveler, she was doing an admirable job.  He stretched out with his feelings, _ah_ , sure enough, Ruby was projecting the Force into her actions, brushing lightly against the server’s mind, luring him in.  It was subtle, so subtle Sam hadn’t picked it up.  Of course it wasn’t directed at him, but still… he really should know better by now, be more attuned, so he could sense people using the Force around him.  He’d been so absorbed in his own Force projection, he’d completely missed it.  Sam filed it away and added it to the long list of skills he needed to improve.  But the server was speaking, so he diverted his attention back to the conversation, stretching is awareness to take in more of the room around him.  He could feel it now, the approachable enticement Ruby displayed for the young man.

 

“Yes,” the server said.  “You see, they say that thirty-three years ago—exactly—the same thing happened.  A dark wraith came out of the caves and began possessing people.  Some Jedi got hurt or something, and people thought it was the Dark Side, but then more Jedi came, and they said it was just sickness, and the wraith went away…  Until it showed up a few weeks ago,” he finished with a shrug.

 

“And since you think we’re not from around here?” Ruby asked.

 

“Just thought I’d warn you; ‘case you didn’t know… ‘cause it’s dangerous.  Not a good time to be around here,” he finished with a toothy smile flashed at Ruby.  Reluctantly pulling himself off the table when an annoyed (and loud) voice shouted from the direction of the bar.

 

“Well, we’re just passing through,” Ruby answered, “but thanks for the warning.”

 

“No problem!”  The server smiled again, looking briefly at Sam before shooting Ruby another smile. “Sure I can’t get you anything else?”

 

“We’re fine, thanks,” Ruby smiled.

 

The young server, walked away slowly, looking over his shoulder, acting positively smitten with Ruby.

 

Sam heard a very _angry_ , high pitched voice shouting again, and saw the server scurry towards the bar.  Careful not to let his disguise slip, he leaned around the corner of the booth and looked back towards the bar, to see the server getting harangued by a particularly loud-mouthed Toydarian, who was flapping around just above the height of the bar.

 

“Good work,” Ruby said, drawing Sam’s attention back.

 

He settled back into the booth, still maintaining the disguise.  Now that people had seen him as a Duros, it wouldn’t be safe to drop it until they left and were a good distance away.

 

“The disguise, I mean,” she added unnecessarily.

 

“Thanks,” Sam said absently, “good job yourself,” he added, but his mind was focused on the young man’s words.  Whatever was happening with Darth Azazel on Courkrus now, it had happened before.  _Exactly_ ten years before he was born.  He thought longingly of the mother he never knew, of her Force ghost’s visit to his dream, of his father and his brother…  It all crashed down on him until he was _aching_ with the pain of loss.  It was times like these he wished he was still in contact with Dean.  Dean knew more about their mother’s past.  He would know the significance of the Sith possessions on Courkrus.  But there was no way.  It wasn’t safe.  It was too late.  Sam couldn’t risk any contact with Dean, no matter how much he wanted answers.  He and Ruby would just have to figure out what was going on the old-fashioned way—through research.  “So, sounds like Darth Azazel’s been here before… ten years before I was born.  Looks like we’ve got our clue.”  He took another swig of his lomin ale and cocked an eyebrow at Ruby, even though she wouldn’t _see_ it through the disguise.

 

“Looks like,” Ruby agreed.

 

“So,” Sam continued.  “We need to look into what happened 30 years ago to find out what’s going on now… and somehow manage to not raise suspicions in the process.”  Sam shook his head, the cloak shaking around it, as he finished his drink in one, long gulp.  “Well, that ought to be _fun_.”

 

Ruby seemed to hang in her seat silent, thinking.  “I think we should start by trying to talk to this… _preacher_ that keeps popping up everywhere,” she offered at last.  “We sure have heard about him enough.”

 

“Why?” Sam asked tilting his head to the side.

 

“Well, seeing as he keeps _showing up_ , he’s either involved somehow, or he’s taking good enough advantage of the situation that he probably knows something… has seen something,” Ruby said.  “Geez, Sam, it’s not hyperspace mechanics.  Get with the program.”

 

He nodded in agreement, but some little voice in his head couldn’t help thinking something about Ruby’s suggestion felt _off_.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 8:**

 _Hyperspace, approaching Coruscant_ (present day—five weeks have passed)

 

Another planet. Another set of rumors, mostly a bust. Dean let out a sigh.

 

Courkrus had turned up the same rumors they’d found everywhere else, or at least one of a very few variations on the same theme. Sometimes the order of the players was different, but the players themselves were always the same.

 

People had disappeared, many showing classic signs of Sith possession. There was screaming, death, destruction, and so much fear. Of course, with Courkrus it was worse; after all it was the planet where Knella, Mary Campbell Winchester’s best friend and one-time partner, had died; the planet where Darth Azazel had slumbered hidden in the Force until he was called back. The good people of the tiny backwater might not know those facts specifically, but they sure remembered the horrors of that time, and as far as they’d been concerned the past had come back to haunt them.

 

Two figures—a woman and a man, the woman a blond, feline, Cathar—had come and gone around the same time. The Acolytes.

 

Then the _preacher_ had shown up. When they prodded the locals hard enough, sure, a few people thought that maybe he looked a little bit like that Naboo Senator who’d disappeared all those months ago in the midst of the killings. The preacher talked about the evils of the Jedi, how they were letting people down, destroying families, ostracizing their own kind—other Force users—who had the _misfortune_ of not being recognized early enough in life. After all, the Jedi didn’t help them anyway; look at how they’d failed to protect the fine people from the death and killing and darkness, how they’d even _denied_ the involvement of the Dark Side.

 

Dean had snorted with disgust every time he’d heard the story on every planet they’d visited since they began tracking Sam, trying to find him. Darth Azazel made a convincing evangelist, and the disgusting part was he wasn’t even _lying_ —at least not about the Jedi’s bias and the harm it caused and how they’d let people down. That was right out of John Winchester’s book. It was why _Hunters_ were necessary.

 

No… it was the part that came after—the whisperings of _worshiping_ the preacher, following the Dark Side, standing up and _opposing_ the Jedi—that was the part that was evil, insidious… the seeds of Darth Azazel’s Master Plan that would bring the galaxy to its knees and then destroy the Force once and for all.

 

Finally, after the Preacher showed, there had been another man and woman. Most of the time the man’s appearance changed, shifted, but every once in a while, he was recognizable as Sam. The _woman_ on the other hand, was always the same. Tall, blonde, wore lots of red, and the man called her _Ruby_.

 

Only now, after nearly seven months of digging. They knew where Ruby had come from and what she _was_.

 

On the near-abandoned desert planet of Ossus, once the home of the Jedi Archives, the greatest library and repository of knowledge in all the galaxy—before celestial cataclysm had shifted its climate causing massive destruction and rendering it a barely habitable wasteland—hidden in a cave outside one of the small human settlements, not too far from the ruins of the Archive itself, was the stain of a powerful Dark Side presence. Following intel Bobby had gathered on Myrkr, Dean and Cas had traced the presence to its source.

 

They’d expected it was another Sith Force-ghost, another presence pulled out of the Dark Side after thousands of years of hibernation. They were right. They’d assumed the entity was a _tool_ of Darth Azazel, one he’d managed to hide from the Protectorate for all these years. Again, they were right. They’d even assumed the being had been _drawn_ into the mortal plane by someone else, some device, perhaps this _Beckonstone_ , a Dark Side Rune of sorts that Bobby had learned about on Myrkr. Again, they were right—they’d even seen the familiar signs of Rune presence and activation, only tinged _red_ and purple with the Dark Side. Perhaps the being was now possessing the blond woman who’d been spotted again and again with Sam, who seemed to be training Sam.

 

They weren’t _wrong_ … but _possessing_ wasn’t exactly what had happened.

 

“I can’t believe,” Dean croaked, cleared his throat, then tried again. “No, I can believe it. I’m just disgusted. How could they _do_ that?”

 

“They want to be like me. Darth Azazel wanted to prove his worth, his equality, to the Protectorate. All his other power plays were against the Jedi,” Cas shifted his piercing blue eyes from his plate across the table to Dean. They were sitting together in the kitchen/clinic trying to Force themselves to eat as the _Dream_ sped through hyperspace. “This one was directed at me, at us, at _our_ people.”

 

Dean reached out and squeezed Cas’s hand, grounding them both with the touch and the added flow of information it provided through their bond.

 

In the cave, along with the presence, they’d found the Force-ghost of a young girl who looked _exactly_ like the descriptions of Ruby. She’d told them her story.

 

 _Her entire life she’d dreamed of a man with Yellow Eyes calling to her. As she got older, the dreams had included the voice of a woman, beautiful, promising. They’d told her she had a purpose; that she was strong in the Force, and they needed her for a great plan that would shape the galaxy, the Universe, for the better. One day the dream had changed, and it had called her to the cave._

 _Inside she’d met a nebulous, purple shape that bore the voice of the woman she’d heard in her dreams for so long. The woman told her she was special. All she had to do was let go, give up her body, and she would be rewarded with great power. Her body was the destined Temple of the Messenger, the form that would carry the voice of the Sith Lord Azazel throughout the galaxy to help him reunite with the Chosen One._

 _When the girl had started to balk, uncertain about giving up her body, her life, not sure what would happen to her if she let go, the woman had told her how it was the only way she would ever realize her potential. The Jedi didn’t care. The Jedi wouldn’t train her, not this old. The Jedi would revile her and fear her because of her great, untapped, untrained power. If they had found her when she was young, they would have torn her away from her family and everything she loved._

 _She’d eventually given in, only to realize as she slipped out of her body the_ true _purpose of the woman and the man with the yellow eyes. They wanted to raise up the Dark Side as a beacon, powerful over all the Force. They wanted to corrupt the soul of the Chosen One and bend him to their will, trick him into consenting as she had. And in doing so, they would destroy the Force and all life with it._

 _At the last moment, she’d lashed out, channeling her untrained power and trying to hold onto her body, to kick out the woman who stole it from her, but she’d been unable to hang on, and then she was stuck there. Her body gone._

 

Dean and Cas both had wanted to help her. Only she was more worried about making sure they found the _Beckonstone_ since that was what had allowed Ruby to come and kick her out of her body in the first place. She’d gleaned enough from her contact with Ruby to learn the Beckonstone was on Coruscant, in the same ruins where the other information about the Lost Prophecy had been recovered.

 

They’d made plans to head to Coruscant after trying to help the girl to move on, become one with the Force, because she seemed to be stuck, anchored to the cave where she’d been kicked out of her body. But then their constant shadow, Jedi Master Gariq Shran, had showed up. One Force ripple of his presence and they’d known they had to leave.

 

So here they were, forcing down canned nerf stew as Chevy flew the ship, whizzing through hyperspace on their way back to Coruscant, and they still hadn’t found Sam.

 

“The Beckonstone will lead us to him, Dean; you have to realize that,” Cas said, his voice confident and full of conviction.

 

“I do know. I just don’t… what if it’s not there? What if Darth Azazel took it with him? What if it’s keyed to him so only _he_ can use it? What will we do then, Cas? I—it’s worse every day. Every time I open my eyes the pain is worse. The Force is tearing faster than I can stop it, and pretty soon it’s going to kill _me_ and then where will we be? Because I certainly can’t _heal_ the Force if I’m dead.” Dean dropped his spoon to his dish with a clang and started to stand up in a huff. A wave of vertigo hit him as the Force rippled, surging through him, slamming into his body as it pulled itself apart.

 

Cas still had his hand, though. He squeezed, steadying Dean, gently coaxing him to sit back down.

 

“I can’t—I just… it’s harder and harder to block out the memories. My psychometric abilities… It’s almost overwhelming to sit in here. Whenever I bump into a surface I haven’t touched in a while, it’s like Dad and Sam and my childhood are all I can see,” he stammered, his eyes stinging as he blinked back tears.

 

“The Beckonstone will work. We will find it. I—I’m not sure how, but the Force is telling me it will work. And if not… perhaps Sam will turn his beacon on,” Cas offered with a weak grin.

 

Dean snorted. “Yeah, because he’s suddenly going to turn it on so we can find him at the last minute, after _months_ of leaving it off.” Dean shook his head as he slumped against the table. “He’s severed ties with me Cas. He’s being trained by a Sith _Messenger_. And I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”

 

“About what?” Cas added softly.

 

“The ruins. The Beckonstone.” Dean looked up, meeting Cas’s eye again. “We can’t take Chevy with us. She has to stay here with the _Dream_. It’s—the Force is telling me it’s the only way we won’t die.”

 

Cas’s eyes widened as his grip on Dean’s hand tightened.

 

“We’ll get through this, Dean. You must be strong. I will find a way to navigate us safely to the other side. Then we will find Sam and stop Azazel.”

 

“Okay,” Dean began to answer, but then the hyperspace proximity alert chimed, and Chevy’s warbling voice blurted over the ship’s comm system, letting them know they were dropping out of hyperspace and she would be laying in a course that would let her land not far from the coordinates of the ruins.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 9:**

 _Jedi_ _Temple_ _, Coruscant_ (present day—12 hours later)

 

Master Shran stared off in the direction that Master Zachariah had disappeared, still somewhat stunned by the events that had transpired.  He could feel the desperation emanating from Dean Winchester long after the sound of Kreill Zachariah’s footsteps had faded from the echoing stone halls of the Temple’s great hall.  He could still see the look of disappointment—betrayal—even that James Novak, or Cas Tiel, or whomever he thought he was, had sent Shran’s way when Master Uriel had led him from the Jedi High Council’s audience chamber.  Novak hadn’t resisted like Winchester had, but his mind had brushed Shran’s as he left, and Shran had heard Novak— _Tiel’s_ —warning:  “You are making the same mistakes the Jedi made during the time of greatest darkness; continue down this path, and the universe will be destroyed.” 

 

Shran couldn’t get over the _certainty_ in the message.  It wasn’t the crazed delusions of a fallen Jedi.  More than that, he’d _met_ James Novak.  When Novak was a Padawan, he and his master, Ellana Harvelle, had been assigned to a recon mission with Shran.  Novak had always had a strange seriousness about him; he’d seemed like a man who genuinely understood his calling, knew that he had a purpose in the universe far greater than even that of the average Jedi, but he hadn’t been arrogant or conceited, just very, very focused.  That mind—that _soul_ —was _not_ the same as the man with the old, _blue_ eyes and the very precise manner of speaking who Master Zachariah had just led to the detention center.  For that matter, Novak’s eyes had been brown, Shran was sure of it.

 

 _If an ancient Sith Lord can come back and take over the bodies of others to achieve his purposes, why not a Jedi?_ Shran asked himself.  But he also realized that Nov— _Tiel_ wasn’t an identical case to Darth Azazel.  Where Azazel seemed to force himself into living bodies still inhabited by their own souls, Shran hadn’t sensed another presence, another being, in Tiel’s body.  There was no trace of the Jedi he had once known.  _A well trained Jedi can separate himself from his mortal body and transfer his life-force to another or simply cross over to become One with the Force._   The lesson he’d read in the ruined archives on Ossus echoed through his mind.

 

Had that been Novak’s destiny?  Had he known, when the time came, he was supposed to leave his body behind and move on, providing a new host—vessel—body for a five-thousand-year-old Jedi?  Shran stroked his stubbled chin in contemplation as he considered it, cocking one eyebrow.  He realized it was certainly possible and, indeed, equally probable as anything else that seemed to be connected with the Lost Prophecy.

 

So, if Cas Tiel was actually who he said he was—the spirit of a Jedi from Lord Azazel’s time—could the rest of it be true?  Could Tiel really be this Guide, sent to protect the Healer?  Could the galaxy, nay, the _universe_ —the Force itself—be hanging in the balance, unless the Healer and Guide were freed to confront the Chosen One and prevent him from combining his power with the ancient Sith Lord’s?

 

For that matter, what had the two been doing in the ruins?  Looking for something else associated with the Prophecy perhaps?  He couldn’t fathom what would have led them back there, led them to Coruscant when they obviously knew the Council was looking for them.  He’d had enough close calls and near misses—times he’d _almost_ caught them—to know they were perfectly aware of the Council’s _resolve_ that they be recovered.  What could possibly have led them to place themselves at such great risk?

 

“Master Shran, what are you still doing here?” Master Uriel’s voice said from behind him.

 

Shran had not heard the man approach, which itself was disconcerting.  Shran had been absorbed in thought, but not so absorbed that he had lost track of his surroundings.  He reached out with his senses and realized that there was a strange—absence—if he stretched out far enough; it was as if the Force simply stopped, and there was a void… somewhere above them, where the Temple’s detention center should be. 

 

He was also distinctly displeased with the Councilor who had shown nothing, but single-minded obstinacy in the Council Chamber.  He was not listening to logic or reason or the Force; he seemed ruled and guided by unbridled emotion in contrast with the deep lessons of the Force all Jedi learned at an early age.

 

When Shran didn’t answer, Uriel spoke again, “Certainly you didn’t believe any of that Sith-deluded nonsense Novak was spewing?”  The disdain was almost dripping from his voice.

 

“He did not seem like Novak to me,” Shran answered in an even voice, picking his words carefully.  “I worked with James Novak when he was a Padawan, and that was not—”

 

“Speak no further!” Master Uriel hissed, his voice low, carrying with it the commanding echo of the Force.

 

Shran was not nearly weak-minded enough for the command to actually force him to stop speaking, but he fell silent nonetheless, taken aback by the Councilor’s hostility.

 

“That man,” Uriel pointed angrily with his finger in the direction of the service turbolift that led to all the higher levels of the temple’s North-West quarter, “is nothing more than a deranged, deluded, _boy_.  A boy who came across apocryphal Sith,” Uriel’s hiss grew more emphatic, “misinformation, and used it to corrupt a young man with force sensitivity who happened to escape our detection.”

 

Shran didn’t answer.

 

“You do know where we found them?” Uriel prompted.  “We found them lurking around the excavation sight in the Marani mountains.  The site where the Sith relics were found,” he spat.

 

 _Well that could be incriminating, except there’s a bunch of explanations that don’t involve them being Sith acolytes.  Not to mention that’s where the whole Lost Prophecy business was uncovered_ , Shran thought.  He still didn’t speak.

 

“You don’t actually believe that traitor?” Uriel spat with equal parts disgust and disbelief.

 

Shran blanched; Master Uriel was angry; the emotions rolling off of him were those that laid a path to the Dark Side. “I thought you said _he_ was deluded?” Shran asked.

 

Master Uriel’s eyes narrowed, “You don’t actually believe him, do you?” he repeated more pointedly.  The harshness of his glare obviating what the _right_ answer was.

 

Well, Master Shran had never been one to back down from a challenge, especially not one involving the Dark Side.  “I’m not sure what I believe,” Shran began, choosing his words carefully. He sensed the retort ready to erupt from Uriel’s lips and drew himself up to his full height—Uriel was a much _bigger_ man, but years of needing to appear imposing, strong, steadfast to victims and criminals alike gave Shran the advantage; Master Uriel held his tongue.

 

“I am trained to investigate, to root out the Dark Side and stop its followers from bringing harm to the Republic.  I am telling you that in my _professional_ ,” he spit the word out, “opinion the Dark Side is at play here, and it’s far more complicated than some Jedi who found a relic and lost his mind.”  He jabbed a finger in the direction of the turbolifts, mirroring Master Uriel’s gesture from moments before.  “I worked with James Novak, and that wasn’t him. His energy is completely different.”

 

And in that moment the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place.  Without even closing his eyes, Shran could see the radiant grey that had characterized Tiel’s movements in the cave on Ossus and again in the Council Chamber only an hour ago. It was the same Force signature that had appeared out of nowhere on Manaan.  And it definitely wasn’t the soothing, fluid, blue-green that was Novak.

 

Master Uriel’s face fell, settling in an uncharacteristically dour scowl.  “It sounds to me like your judgment on this matter has been compromised,” he said, folding his arms in front of his chest.

 

“Compromised?”

 

“I have noticed your fascination with this so-called prophecy about the Healer for some time now, and regardless of evidence to the contrary, no matter what information the Council has provided, you have persisted in your unwavering belief!” Uriel’s voice rose, booming out, beginning to echo around the cavernous arched ceilings of the Temple’s atrium. 

 

A group of a dozen or so younglings accompanied by two older Padawans who were serving as their guides were emerging from the closest entrance to the Room of a Thousand Fountains, the mammoth gardens for meditation and reflection that occupied the first seven levels of the temple’s First Knowledge Quarter, the North-West quarter, from which Uriel had earlier emerged.  The students froze, uncertainty playing across their young faces, clearly shocked by the sight of a respected Council member raising his voice to another Master.  They stopped so abruptly, their robes and cloaks made harsh swishing sounds as they brushed against each other.

 

Shran could feel his ire rising, and he realized how close to Master Uriel he had leaned.  _There is no emotion; there is peace_.  He ran over the familiar touchstone of the Jedi Code, calming himself.  “The evidence says there is something more going on here,” he protested, “and I would like the opportunity to bring it to Master Yoda’s attention; he has experience with some of the older records, with Sith legends, even some of their holocrons; he has explored other Force traditions… maybe he can shed some light on this situation, because the man you put in that cell is not Novak, and I don’t think Winchester is a deluded child either.”  There he’d said it.  After months of going through the normal channels, finding roadblocks and unanswered questions at every turn, he had finally made up his mind.  If Master Uriel wouldn’t listen, then Shran would go over his head.

 

“No.”  It was final.  Certain.  Cold.  And the word hadn’t come from Uriel’s lips.

 

Uriel’s eyes were focused somewhere over Shran’s right shoulder, so Shran turned, just then sensing another Jedi’s presence.  Master Zachariah stood behind him, hands clasped and tucked under the interlaced sleeves of his robes.  His blue eyes burned with a fierce conviction Shran had only seen him use when interrogating those who dabbled in the Dark Side.  It was chilling to have that glare directed at himself.

 

“Master Yoda is off-planet accompanying a Caamasi delegation to Hapes.  He cannot be disturbed.”

 

“Master Zachariah, I simply think we should contact him in this matter; it is his area of expertise,” Shran explained, appealing to the Councilor’s respect for specialization.  “Perhaps he could add a perspective that we do not have, help us see what we are missing.”  He knew he was grasping at straws, but it was worth the try.  Shran wasn’t used to being so easily dismissed.

 

Zachariah barely even acknowledged Shran when he replied. “I do not know this _we_ of whom you speak; Master Uriel and I, and the rest of the Council are seeing this matter very clearly.”  He skewered Shran again with another withering glare. “ _We_ will not become a spectacle for _your_ ambitions.”

 

“Ambitions? Is—is that what you think this is about?” Shran asked dumbfounded. Reflexively, he extended his senses, not searching or digging into the Council members’ minds, just checking to see if any emotions or thoughts were floating around on the surface—anything that might make sense of this confusion.  There was that unexpected anger coming from Master Uriel, a kind of single-minded determination Shran associated most with Sith zealots rolling off of Master Zachariah, and... and there it was again, that bizarre _nothingness_ coming from the floors above.

 

“Of course that’s what you’re after,” Master Zachariah’s tone was almost sarcastic, as if any other explanation was simply too ridiculous to consider.  “You think your role as a Shadow has made you important.  You think the Council doesn’t take Dark Side threats seriously enough, and you think that by discrediting existing Council members, by going over our heads, you’ll find yourself a spot on the Council.  You think perhaps the station of a member of the Jedi High Council will give you the recognition you deserve.”  Zachariah had a caricature of a grin on his face when he finished speaking.

 

“That’s _not_ what I want,” Shran insisted, carefully keeping his voice level.

 

Nonetheless, Zachariah glanced back over his shoulder at the gaggle of younglings and Padawans.  They were still transfixed along one side of the atrium, and had been joined by a few newcomers since Shran had last noticed them. “Move along children; pay no attention to the spectacle Shran is trying to create.”

 

The children moved, nearly tripping over themselves and each other as the Padawans suddenly sprung back to life, remembering their places and herding the younger Force-adepts towards the bank of lifts that would take them back to the dormitories, high above the cavernous room from which they had emerged.

 

Shran watched them go.

 

“I suggest you meditate on your role in the order,” Uriel said, voice deep, rolling like thunder over the Maranai mountains.  Without waiting for Shran to respond or leave, Uriel turned to Zachariah and asked, “I trust the prisoner is situated? The lizards are in place?”

 

 _Lizards?_

 

“Yes; Winchester is contained, and unconscious, at the moment.” Zachariah’s voice was a mixture of relief and pleasure. “I am already wary of that boy; he does seem powerful.”  Zachariah hung his head. “It is a shame we did not find him as a child; he might have made a skilled Jedi if he had been trained.”  He sighed, “Still, when he awakes, he will be unable to touch the Force—”

 

The pieces slipped into place. “You used ysalimiri on Winchester!” Master Shran exclaimed, shocked.

 

Two pairs of eyes turned to meet his.  It was unthinkable.  Shran had retrieved the strange, mostly sessile animals from Myrkr for research!  His interest had been mainly to see if they could have caused the strange forceless spheres he and his team had detected on Manaan. Shran had even thought they might provide a containment option for some of the particularly dark and ancient artifacts Jedi Shadows sometimes came across.  But he had never imagined using them as a containment device for another Force user, not even the most particularly virulent Sith!  The _shock_ and disorientation Shran had felt the first time he set foot on Myrkr… he would not wish that on even his worst enemy.

 

“We did not ‘use’ ysalimiri on anyone,” Master Uriel said with a note of disdain as he turned to regard Shran.  “Until we are certain what we are dealing with, what teachings or relics whose thrall Novak and Winchester might have fallen under, we felt it would be safer for all involved if they were housed inside the protective bubble the lizards provide.”  He took a few steps past Zachariah and leaned in closer.  “There are _children_ here, we do not know how the prisoners’ use of the Force might influence the younglings, or if Winchester or Novak might try to glean information from unsuspecting minds still in training.”  Uriel paused, giving Shran a dismissive glare.  He turned back to Master Zachariah and continued.  “If the lizards work as well as you expect, I am considering bringing a proposal at the next council meeting.  I think adding several of the lizards on a more permanent basis, on their native Olbio trees perhaps, would greatly enhance the security and the atmosphere of the Asylum levels.”

 

“Wait, you’ve got both of them in—” Shran sputtered as the import of Uriel’s words caught up to him.

 

“Master Shran,” Zachariah interrupted.  “This matter does not concern you.  We—”

 

“Who’s we?” Shran asked.

 

“The Jedi Council,” Uriel answered, standing up straighter.

 

“Has Master Yoda agreed to this?” He couldn’t see the elder Jedi Master agreeing to something so _cruel_.

 

“The _Council_ voted,” Zachariah scoffed.  “Now Master Shran, I suggest you meditate on your reaction.  We are grateful to you for bringing the lizards to us, but we still have to focus our attention on the pressing issue of the Lost Prophecy and someone claiming to be a Sith running around the Republic attacking people, instilling fear in the masses.”

 

 _You could start by considering the possibility he really_ is _a Sith_ , Shran thought darkly. But Master Zachariah’s words were clearly a dismissal, and Shran had never been more thankful to have an excuse to make a quick exit.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 10:**

(meanwhile) _Korriban_ (present day)

 

Lately it seemed like Ruby had been dragging him everywhere.  No sooner had they arrived at a new planet than Ruby would get anxious, impatient.  They were always one step behind the Sith Possessions, never _quite_ syncing up with the preacher who seemed to be turning the masses against the Jedi on every world the Sith-related violence showed up.  Sam thought they were rushing through their investigation.  He was pretty sure if they would just stay put _longer_ he would be able to put more of the pieces together.  Figure out if his suspicions were true.

 

But over the last two weeks Ruby had started talking about trying to track down _her_ Master, saying she didn’t think she could get Sam ready on her own.  He needed more training that she couldn’t give.

 

Considering the amount of time they’d spent on the _Folly_ recently, Sam had to disagree.  When the ship was surrounded by the endless blue of hyperspace all there was to do was meditate, train, and fuck.  They did a fair amount of the latter, but more and more, Sam had been taking the extra time to train—running katas with his lightsaber in the cargo hold, deflecting blasts from the training remote he’d constructed months ago, meditating on the techniques Ruby had taught him, studying the Sith holocron, testing the limits of his new powers.  In fact, the more _frantic_ Ruby seemed to get about Sam’s training, the more she obsessed about how much more prepared he needed to be to face Azazel, the more relaxed Sam felt.  The dreams—visions—were as bad as ever but they were starting to feel normal, blending into the static buzz that always seemed to fill the back of his mind. 

 

Maybe it was overconfidence, maybe it was pride, or maybe part of him was giving up—or _making peace_ with his Destiny.  Maybe Miss’Ouri had been right.  Prophecies were too tricky to try to predict or avoid.  When it came down to it all he could do was prepare for anything and try to keep on fighting to live another day.  He’d even entertained the idea of turning on his locator beacon, although he wasn’t sure if that was because he _missed_ Dean or if he wanted to rub his newfound strength and power in Dean’s over-cautious face.  See what his precious _Guide_ thought of Sam now.

 

Now they were on Korriban.  The planet was so far out there and had such a… storied history with the Sith, Sam was beginning to doubt the signs of Dark Side possession they’d tracked here were real.  Maybe it was just old Force radiation—echoes of Sith past.

 

Whatever it was, Ruby seemed _different_ today, more eager, almost excited. 

 

Sam welcomed the change, since she seemed t be slowing down, okay with staying in one place long enough to get their bearings.  So, he was happy to indulge whatever was the source of her good mood.

 

“Sam,” Ruby called, sounding uniquely pleased, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

 

Sam turned from where he was concentrating on deciphering the Sith writing on the wall. Hours of staring at the symbols wasn’t helping it to make any more sense. Ruby was smiling, a huge contrast from her earlier anger, frustration, and disappointment. She was also wearing the same red nerfhide suit she’d worn the first time they’d met, when she’d approached him on Nar Shaddaa.

 

He wondered what could’ve happened to change her demeanor. It seemed like this was yet another world where they were too late, too far behind. They’d both been depressed just this morning, although, Ruby had seemed... odd somehow: a little distant maybe. Withdrawn, like she wasn’t quite all there in their bond. Part of her was elsewhere, and she had seemed, _dark_ somehow, in a way he hadn’t sensed before. But now she was happy. Happy could mean finding Azazel. After so long searching, he wanted to find, wanted to _kill_ Azazel with a such fury and hatred, he could feel the flare of power surge inside him until it was all he could do to keep it contained, instead of bursting forth and springing from him as a fireball or lightning, or any number of destructive powers he had mastered since meeting Ruby. He couldn’t fathom what other discovery or encounter could have made her so... pleased. Unless, perhaps she’d encountered... her master? The one who had taught her such skill and control over the Force.

 

“Who would you like me to meet?” Sam asked, looking past Ruby’s shoulder. He could just make out a cloaked figure hiding in the shadows. Something prickled in the back of his mind, made his fingers twitch, itch, want to reach for his lightsaber. But he didn’t. There was no need. He was safe, among friends. Perhaps the hour of his victory was at hand.

 

“Sam Winchester,” she said, a strange echo running through her voice, “it seems our timing has not been so unfortunate as we had first suspected. It is my distinct pleasure to introduce you to my master,” her voice almost purred.

 

The figure took three steps out of the shadow, hands reaching up to pull the hood of its cloak back from its face.

 

Sam straightened in anticipation. If this master had taught Ruby so much, what could he teach Sam?

 

The figure pulled back his hood, raising his head to meet Sam’s eye.

 

Sam gasped in shock.

 

The figure’s eyes flashed yellow.

 

“—Darth Azazel,” Ruby finished, with a smug surge of power as she stood up to her full height, head flung back, stepping into a wide stance clearly meant to block the door. Sam had no doubt she could repel anyone from entering or exiting.

 

“No!” Sam breathed, betrayal sapping his voice of strength. His hands flew to his hip, his lightsaber springing into his grasp, as he dropped into a defensive stance.

 

“Oh yes,” said Darth Azazel. “I’m afraid Ruby has been my servant, my messenger all along.” His cloak seemed to flip back on his shoulders without his touching it or even moving, as far as Sam could perceive. He was indeed still in the body of the Naboo Senator, but that body was now… warped, twisted and aged with the evil that seemed to twist and roil out from it. Wave after wave of Force tinged with the scent of death and decay. He took another step towards Sam.

 

“I—I thought Ruby was _mine_ , sent to help me. To help me defeat you,” Sam growled from between gritted teeth. Although now he wondered how he could have ever believed such a clearly preposterous lie. He didn’t have a _Guide_ in the prophecy. He was just the Chosen One. Always alone. Always a threat. Always—

 

“Oh she _is_ yours, and I believe you and she have _had_ each other for quite some time,” Azazel said, casting a clearly lustful, appreciative gaze at Ruby.

 

She smiled back, her face full of adoration and _pride_ at her accomplishment. She turned her gaze back to Sam. “I’ve always appreciated what my master has given me.”

 

“You see she’s just been mine for about five thousand years longer.” His face spread in a nauseating caricature of a smile. “You didn’t think they actually had a place for you—someone for _you_ in the Protectorate’s little prophecy, did you?” Azazel gasped in faux surprise. “Oh, but you did. You—you want so much to be like your brother and his wretched Force whore.” He spat in disgust. “You… denigrate yourself, thinking you should be like them. They, who would have denied you your power. Who would have prevented you from studying the skills and knowledge you needed to walk the path that the Force has set out before you. They would have kept you from your destiny. Would have kept you from _me_!”

 

“No,” Sam whispered. Then again, more forcefully. “No! I will fight you. I will either kill you or die trying.”

 

“No you will not, Sam. You see, you were made for me. I marked you from the moment you were conceived. I saw you, knew your existence would come from millennia past. You cannot fight me. You do not even desire to. I can give you what none of them ever could. I do not want you to change. I will accept you, love you, for exactly who you are. And I will not abandon you. Nor will I deny you the existence you have always known was yours.” Azazel’s voice was resonant, sickly sweet like chulaberry sap, thick and treacley oozing from every molecule of his being, permeating his presence in the Force and flowing out—out and over Sam, into Sam, whispering to him, soothing him, a salve for his soul.

 

Sam shook his head, shuddering as he felt the effect break. He called on his anger, used it, felt the fire of its righteousness and used it to pull the Force into him, burning in its intensity, electric. He pushed it out—nothing happened. Neither Azazel nor Ruby so much as flinched. _Well, maybe we’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way_ , he mused. He felt his nostril and lip twitch into a sneer as he set himself into a fighting stance, raising his lightsaber and extending its ghostly amethyst blade, and striking.

 

Azazel was unarmed; he was unarmed, and Sam’s blow should be able to land.

 

Only Azazel moved faster than possible, his lightsaber flowing, flying into his hands in a smooth arc as its blade ignited. He swung and parried, his blade catching Sam’s with a violent crackle.

 

Sam pushed back striking high then low, then spinning, pivoting on his foot and slashing in a wide sweeping arc, with all his momentum and all the power of the Force behind it. It was going to connect; there was no way Azazel could parry in time. For a heartbeat, Sam thought he had succeeded. Maybe he wouldn’t kill Azazel, but he would at least destroy his host, slow him down.

 

But then his blade just _stopped_. Dead in its tracks, mere microns from Azazel’s skin, brushing close enough to his robe, that Sam could smell the odor of singed cloth.

 

Sam strained, he pushed, but an invisible barrier kept him from moving his blade any closer. Angry, he snarled, pulling back, ready to swing again, even if the position would leave him dangerously vulnerable to Lord Azazel’s counter attack. Only, he couldn’t move. In that instant, Sam realized he couldn’t even twitch his fingertips. It was as if he was frozen, suspended. In time; in the Force.

 

“Silly boy, I don’t want to kill you,” Azazel crooned. “And I certainly don’t care if you damage this… meat suit,” he added with an air of disgust and disdain. As if to prove the point, Sam’s blade suddenly passed the invisible barrier and cut into Azazel’s flesh, slicing through his body until it had reached where Azazel’s spine should be. Then it just stopped.

 

Sam could smell melted skin, singed muscle, but is lightsaber wouldn’t budge, and he couldn’t move again.

 

Then Azazel was drawing him in. Pulling the blade through his body as he pulled Sam closer to him, lifting Sam up on his toes, his body flopping into a caricature of a marionette with cut strings as the Azazel drew him closer, an invisible fist closing around Sam’s throat, just tight enough that it was hard to breathe, that everything was a little too clear, tingly, the salty sweat pouring from his brow and rolling down his face too present and too real. Ticklish.

 

When the hilt of Sam’s lightsaber connected with Azazel’s host’s body, it stopped suddenly.

 

Sam just breathed, struggling against the invisible hands holding him.

 

Then there were real hands, Azazel’s host’s real hands, coming up to frame his face. Azazel’s lightsaber was deactivated, forgotten somewhere—Sam didn’t know, and it didn’t really matter because right now all he could focus on were Azazel’s hands, touching—no stroking, caressing his face almost lovingly.

 

It made Sam’s stomach roll. “Oh yeah,” he managed to gasp, breath heaving, “then what are you going to do to me?”

 

Azazel’s eyes flashed brighter, somehow more _intense_ the yellow turning to gold and almost _glowing_ ; truth swirled in their depths.

 

—And suddenly Sam knew, his eyes widening in shock with the realization.

 

“I just want _you_ , Sam. Body and soul. You are Ruby’s, and Ruby is mine, and now you are going to be mine too. It is your destiny, Sam Winchester. You will give me new life, and together the Force will be ours.”

 

The invisible hands tugged Sam closer still, tilting him down as one of Azazel’s hands wrapped around the back of his head and the other, gripped Sam’s jaw, forcing his mouth to open slightly. Azazel closed the gap between them, staring into Sam’s eyes, showing Sam the truth of his soul—

 

—And then Azazel was kissing him. Lips and tongue too distorted to be truly human, moist and hot against Sam’s, coaxing his mouth open further, seeming to _suck_ Sam in. Azazel’s tongue slipped into his mouth… and then it wasn’t just Azazel’s tongue, but thick smoke, pouring itself down Sam’s throat, rising out of the host and filling Sam. Azazel was pouring himself into Sam—taking possession.

 

There was nothing he could do to stop it.

 

Sam realized somehow, he had always known his life was leading to this.

 

And then everything went dark.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 11:**

 _Jedi_ _Temple_ _, Coruscant_ (present day)

 

Master Shran walked away from the Jedi Council members with hardly more than a nod, briskly crossing the atrium to one of the turbolifts that led to the top of the temple ziggurat with strong, purposeful strides.  The nearest lift opened as he approached, and Shran stepped inside, glancing back as he pressed the controls, programming the lift to take him to the highest level.  Zachariah and Uriel were still engaged in conversation, but were now strolling towards the lifts near the front of the Grand Hall, the large atrium that connected the four quarters of the temple ziggurat on the entrance level.  _Heading to the Council chamber, no doubt_ , he observed as the doors slid shut with a gentle puff.

 

As a destination materialized in his mind, Shran realized taking a direct turbolift would have been faster, but Shran needed the time to think.  He began pacing back and forth in the empty lift; Shran knew he required the physical movement to keep his emotions in check, so he could maintain a clear connection to the Force.

 

It was _odd_ though, he realized as the lift reached its destination as he exited, crossing the short distance across the open gardens to base of Tranquility Spire, the central, tallest—and oldest—tower of the five that stood atop the temple ziggurat.  As the doors to the lift that ascended the spire opened, Shran struggled to put the oddness into words.  The Force felt strange—fragmented, halting, unfamiliar.  It reminded him of the strange choppiness he’d seen in some of his fellow Jedi’s Force signatures recently, only on a broader scale.  He couldn’t figure out what it was, though.  Perhaps it was his own unease manifesting in his connection with the Force? 

 

He took a deep breath; steadied himself; opened his eyes, hoping that calming himself would smooth the flow of the Force.  This lift moved much faster, each level of the spire moving by in a blur.  Whether by luck or the will of the Force, Shran found himself again riding alone. As he neared the top of the spire, the Temple was still and quiet around him.  He could feel the Force presence of all the Knights, younglings, Padawans, and masters in the building far below as they went about their daily lives meditating, studying, training, researching in the archives.  Up here, the strange absence of Force caused by the lizards in the fairly low levels of the First Knowledge Quarter was less noticeable.

 

 _Maybe meditation would be a good idea_ , Shran thought.  He shook his head, the familiar confidence of the Force telling him to stick with the plan he had formulated as he entered the first turbolift.  He could meditate later, but first he would send a message to Master Yoda.  It might come back to haunt him; after all, if the Council had voted and approved the handling of Winchester and Tiel, the sage Jedi Master would probably find Shran was being insubordinate.  But it wasn’t just the treatment of prisoners that was making him uneasy…  Shran was concerned by the almost flippant dismissal Zachariah and Uriel had exhibited towards Tiel and Winchester’s story.  He’d understood the Council’s discomfort with the Lost Prophecy and the possibility it might be coming true—he’d found the prospect incredibly uncomfortable to accept at first himself—but discomfort, even shame for past actions, neither explained nor justified Zachariah and Uriel’s refusal to even entertain the possibility that something more was going on.  Especially, since it was so clear that Tiel was _not_ Novak.

 

Mind made up, Shran exited the turbolift at the second highest level, just below the top of the spire, stepping out into the quiet, grand openness of the Hall of Knighthood. 

 

Because of the temple’s immense bulk, it was particularly difficult to get good comm signals inside the temple proper.  As a result, holocomm terminals had been built into the top levels of each of the five towers.  There were private holocomm terminals on this level hidden away in alcoves at the end of each of two of the three pillared hallways off of the circular chamber that formed the Hall.  The third hallway housed the turbolifts that carried Shran to the room. 

 

The terminals, and the small private chambers in which each was located, were reserved for special circumstances when a Jedi needed a terminal free of the prying and observant eyes, ears, minds, and other sensory organs of other Jedi, surrounded by the tranquility of the Force and physical reminders of the purpose of the Order. As a result, these terminals were used mostly for Knights who were either counseling or involved in resolving an ongoing dispute when their counselees wanted extra privacy.  Occasionally they were used by Jedi who had reestablished contact with their planet or community of origin and wished for privacy for themselves.  Many in the Order believed that either the presence of the statutes of the great Knights and Masters or the formal Knighting ceremonies held there imbued the Hall with great wisdom and inspiration, and any who used the alcoves off of the Hall as their base of communications would receive the aid of that wisdom.

 

The Hall of Knighthood itself served as a museum, meditation area, and as the site of formal ceremonies, notably the knighting ceremony in which Padawans ascended to the rank of Jedi Knight.  There were no knighting ceremonies scheduled at present, and the Hall’s remoteness, near-sterile grandness, and smooth, pristine marble surfaces meant it wasn’t nearly as popular a destination for meditation as the Room of a Thousand Fountains many, many levels below.  Since the bulk of the Temple’s residents were presently engaged in their daily schedules of study, training, and administrative tasks, the Hall, indeed the entire level of the Temple’s central Tranquility Spire was completely deserted. 

 

Shran took a few purposeful steps out of the turbolift and paused to take in his surroundings, willing the chamber’s inspirational power and wisdom to have some effect.  The smooth marble walls were soothingly cool to the touch, and the floors in each of the three column-lined hallways were covered in a plush, blue carpet that silenced nearly all noise, even the sound of Shran’s footsteps. 

 

The silence was deafening—it was beyond lack of noise, but here, in the second-highest level of the Temple, a full kilometer above the main ‘ground’ level of Coruscant, with even much of the traffic of hovercars and transports flying through the air _below_ , the _Force_ was quiet.  The level below the Hall was used only when a Padawan awaited knighting.  The student would rest and meditate in the chamber the night before the ceremony, able to prepare and reflect in peace and solitude.  The level above, with its vault of prized holocrons, was accessed almost exclusively by the Librarian of the Archives and Jedi High Council members.  Today, both levels were empty.  Even two levels below, where the original peak of the mountain on which the Temple was built was preserved, the viewing and meditation space was empty.  Shran felt almost perfectly alone.  And again, as he reached out, he felt the strange roughness in his connection with the Force.

 

He tried to shrug off the strangeness and took in his surroundings, standing at the mouth of the turbolift hall and surveying the space around him.  The entrances to each of the turbolifts on this level were framed by peak-arched doorways made of a slightly deeper hue than the surrounding walls and ceiling.  The lifts themselves were located quite close to the level’s central chamber, while the hall itself extended outward beyond the lifts.  More archways graced the hall’s smooth marble walls, running around the perimeter of the broad, column-lined hall in a U-shape. 

 

The circular central room—and the space that came to mind when one mentioned the Hall of Knighthood—was empty at the center.  That was where knighting ceremonies and other important rituals took place, and the space reflected its grand purpose.  The ceiling was high and scalloped, made of the same two tones of marble that lined the halls.  The floor bore a simple, yet deeply meaningful pattern with shades blue, green, and coral marble representing the ebb and flow of life in the universe and the Force that bound it all together. 

 

Ringing the empty ceremonial circle were life-size statues of those Knights and Masters who had been the best and most revered in the Order.  Many of the statues bore the genuine clothing, lightsabers, or jewelry of their likenesses.  Beyond the statues was a walkway about three meters wide that allowed observers to view the statues from all sides, and permitted visitors to traverse the level without needing to disturb anyone who might be meditating in the ceremonial circle. 

 

The outside of the walkway was bounded by the sweeping sand-colored outer walls of the temple, which themselves were punctuated liberally with tall peak-arched transparisteel windows that stretched from knee height almost to the ceiling; each window sat above a low window seat upholstered in the same soothing blue that carpeted the three halls.  The windows brought in natural light from Coruscant’s sun and provided a breathtaking view of the Republic’s capital spread out below.

 

The remainder of the level—the hall that housed the turbolifts and its two twins—served as a display area for Jedi art and artifacts.  Sure, there were museums where many Jedi relics were displayed for the public—the Royal Museum of Alderaan had an impressive collection.  But there was some art and relics the Jedi considered too personal, too special, too _private_ , to put on public display.  These were displayed in the peaked-arch–framed, recessed alcoves that lined the three halls.  Jedi would sometimes come here to learn more about the heritage of the Order and develop a deeper understanding and appreciation for the personalities of their comrades.  But, as Shran had sensed upon first exiting the lift, the space was presently deserted.

 

The other two hallways sprang out from the circular central chamber 120 degrees apart and similarly distant from the turbolift hall.  They filled the flared spaces that gave the exterior of the Tranquility Spire its distinctive look.  At the end of each hall was a room that housed a holocomm unit and a terminal that connected to the Temple’s central computer network and allowed members of the Order to patch into their own personal files in case they needed to transmit data or documents in addition to sending a holomessage or make a holocall.  The ceilings inside the rooms were dropped low to create a more intimate feel.  To enhance privacy, each room was equipped with a wooden door that slid shut when occupied and the thick, marble walls added an extra level of isolation. 

 

Because of the relatively frequent traffic, the turbolift hall didn’t have a holocomm terminal at its end.  Instead it had a deep alcove housing a pedestal upon which a particularly noteworthy piece of art could be housed.  In practice, the Council used that space to give the Jedi time to privately reflect on those artifacts that were ultimately destined for museums and public viewing _before_ they were shown to the Republic’s masses.  In Shran’s relatively short lifetime, he could recall six separate artifacts that had been housed there; each had later been moved to one of the Republic’s most respected galleries or museums; the last one had been added to one of the exhibits at the Royal Museum of Alderaan shortly before the fiasco with the Lost Prophecy began.  Looking back over his shoulder, Shran noticed that the alcove was presently empty.  He shook his head in disbelief; he’d never seen the alcove go so long without a display.  Maybe the Council was too distracted pondering the possibilities of Force-repelling lizards to locate a suitable relic.

 

Out of respect for the Hall’s ceremonial purpose, Shran followed the path that skirted the chamber, heading for the holocomm chamber at the end of the hallway on the right.  He found his attention drawn inward—to the statues of great Jedi and to the other art and relics displayed along the radiant halls—instead of outward to the breathtaking vista of the bustling world below. 

 

Once upon a time, Shran had thought the policy of keeping _special_ relics and art in the Hall to be viewed by Jedi only was a good idea.  He’d always been a bit hesitant about sharing too much information about the Jedi with the public.  It was the nature of a Jedi Shadow to be secretive, suspicious, even fearful of others.  Everything started to look like a threat from the Dark Side.  Shran was starting to realize the flaw in that logic.

 

 _The more you see yourself as being above them, the easier it is to see them as_ other _; the easier it is to stand by and allow others to commit atrocities in the name of the greater good; the easier it is to fall.  That’s what Jedi fail to understand.  You can call it Light and Dark, but they aren’t good and evil, just two sides of the same coin that is the Force.  Like a coin standing on its edge, push too far to either side, and it will fall; so it is with the Force.  The Jedi don’t realize that their push for the Light causes just as much damage as the Sith’s Dark.  That is why I must leave._

 

The words from Miss’Ouri Ot’Kla’s resignation fluttered through his mind.  There was a statue of her in the Archives, just as there were statues of the other Lost—those few Jedi who, over the millennia had left the Order.  Before—  Before… Shran had never paid her much attention, even though she had departed in his lifetime.  But ever since he’d read her file, it was as if her words had been haunting him, following him where ever he went.  Now it seemed so clear—wasn’t that what the Order was doing by hiding this art away from rest of the Republic?  Making the determination that some things were just too _special_ for _normal_ people to contemplate?  That some knowledge wasn’t suitable for non-Jedi?  Shran wasn’t sure he was ready to start broadcasting protocols of the Order over the holonet, but he was starting to seriously doubt if the tactics of the current Council were really for the best.  If people feared the Jedi because they kept secret so much information, or just failed to understand because the Jedi withheld all the common points of reference that would help people understand the Order’s priorities, or if the Jedi started to see themselves as so much more important—so _superior_ to—the lives they were sworn to protect, the peace and justice they were oath-bound to guard, then how could that be good?  How could that be serving the Force?

 

He shook his head, realizing his musings had taken him to the entrance the next hall.  Immediately across the walkway from the hall’s blue-carpeted entrance was the statue of the Jedi Master.  Unlike most of the statues that encircled the Hall, Anna Angeli’s was turned sideways, posed with her arms held slightly away from her body, palms upturned as if she was welcoming anyone who gathered in the Hall proper, approached on the walkway, or exited from the hall. The statue was dressed in Master Angeli’s own robes and the trademark necklace she had worn.  Shran started to turn into the holocomm chamber to his right, but stopped; did a double-take, leaning in to take a closer look at that necklace he’d seen so many times before.

 

It was a miniature version of _Guardian of Souls_ , her famed carving that hung in the Royal Museum of Alderaan.  At the center of both necklace and carving was a textured square with blue and green swirls… where had he seen that? 

 

Images of the docking bay on Manaan sprung to mind.  The strange flow of the Force, the mysterious Force-signatures he’d found at three of the compass points, one of them partially obscured by the ysalimir’s Force-bubble, a fourth possibly absent because of the strong echo of another Force-bubble.  He’d found those signatures after everything else because they were so _faint_ ; they hadn’t seemed to come from a person, more like some object imbued with the Force.  And it the signatures had looked _just like that_.  Even the shades of blue and green were identical to what the Force had showed him.  Shran wasn’t sure what it meant, but he had a feeling _Winchester_ did.  After all, hadn’t Winchester been spotted at the Royal Museum just before the atrocities on Manaan?  Shran added the curiosity to the list of questions he was going to ask Winchester.

 

Shran’s eyes lingered on the necklace, understanding hovering in the shadows at the back of his mind just out of sight.  At last, he pulled himself away.  He wasn’t going to figure it out by staring, but he could send Master Yoda a transmission, let the elder Jedi know what Shran had figured out, what Uriel and Zachariah were up to maybe even mention the curiosity of the necklace.  Certainly, Master Yoda was just one member of the council, but the four-hundred-year old Jedi had much more experience and a more nuanced perspective, which meant the other Council members tended to hold his opinions in a very high regard.  Besides, Yoda had been born around a hundred years after the end of the New Sith Wars, so he was much more familiar with older incarnations of the Sith and the Dark Side. 

 

Leaving the statute of Anna Angeli behind, Master Shran entered the hall, his steps again silenced by the springy, blue carpet.  He hurried down the hall, and entered the arched marble doorway of the holocomm chamber at its end.  As soon as he stepped inside a simple Roo-wood door slid shut behind him. 

 

The ceiling inside the chamber was level with the highest point of the door’s peaked arch and covered with a soothing, sound-absorbent, light blue tile.  The room itself was sparsely furnished.  The holocomm terminal was positioned against the right wall, so the door was to the user’s side when seated in front of it.  The terminal was flanked by two computer terminals, one containing full access to the electronic portions of the Jedi Archives and other databases maintained by the Order, the other a remote connection terminal that allowed users to connect to their own personal files and data storage without creating any permanent local copies of the information accessed.  Together the thee units formed a slight arc that took up most of the room’s right wall.  A swiveling, molded plasteel chair outfitted with soft cushions in the same shade as the carpet stood in front of the terminals, allowing the user to access all of the room’s equipment with relative ease and comfort.  The only other furnishing was a long, low, Roo-wood table in the same shade of deep brown as the door that stood just in front of the back wall—the perfect surface on which to spread out datapads and maps and records on pieces of flimsi.

 

With long, brisk strides Shran reached the chair and dropped down into it, feeling exhaustion creeping in.  It had been a crazy week.  Uriel and Zachariah’s capture of Winchester and Nov— _Tiel_ had been an almost unbelievable development.  He wanted nothing more than some peace and time to meditate, try to make sense of what he’d learned, but when he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and tried to run through a basic Force meditation technique, he found the Force entering him felt even more fragmented and disjointed than it had even a few minutes before.  Rather than _flowing_ through him like an endless stream of rippling water, the Force felt brittle, almost like a band that had stretched and stretched and finally snapped, unable to return to its previous shape.  The result was most unsettling; Shran found himself feeling _more_ on edge.  Frustrated, he opened his eyes and stared at the holocomm terminal.  He definitely needed to contact Master Yoda.  Something just wasn’t _right_.

 

He turned to the computer that would let him access the archives and used it to pull up the details of Master Yoda’s schedule.  Sure enough, Zachariah’s words were true.  Master Yoda was accompanying a delegation of Caamasi diplomats to one of the border planets of the Hapes Consortium.  There had recently been renewed violence against ships passing too close to the insular and xenophobic aggregation of planets that formed an independent state close to the heart of Republic space.  Shran thought it odd that Yoda would go, considering the Hapans’ notorious hatred of Jedi, but when he looked more closely at the details that were available to someone of his security clearance, he realized it made sense.  The border planets, including those hidden in the mists that surrounded the cluster of stars and planets, weren’t always so happy to be a part of the Consortium and their inhabitants didn’t share the same pathological hatred of Jedi as did their rulers, so having Yoda, an elder, respected Master along for the ride could only help.

 

Shran looked at the timetable and consulted the date on the chrono, letting out a long sigh.  _If_ the mission went according to plan, Master Yoda would be essentially incommunicado for another three weeks.  After that he was scheduled to return to the Chu’unthor, the newly built Jedi training ship that the Council hoped could serve as a mobile academy, enabling students to get more field experience while continuing their studies in a more formal, classroom environment.  Master Yoda was scheduled to oversee instruction there for another two weeks after the conclusion of the Hapes mission before returning to Coruscant. 

 

Shran sighed, let the tension flow out of him, once again feeling the unfamiliarly jerky tug of the energy as it left his body.  Either he was crazy, or the Force was feeling still _more_ off.  Maybe he couldn’t reach Master Yoda right now, but he could certainly give the respected councilmember a heads up and pass on all the information Shran had gathered so far.

 

Shran’s hands hovered over the archive terminal’s controls.  He could access the records about the Lost Prophecy, or at least everything except for the information he’d gathered from outside the archives, like the witness accounts on Ossus and the record fragments he’d found at the archeological excavation there—the ones that mentioned the _Healer_ and _Guide_.  But any records he pulled through that terminal would be logged and recorded, and _someone might see_.

 

He blanched at that thought.  Was he really regarding Torian Uriel and Kraill Zachariah, members of the Jedi Counsel as threats?  Maybe they were right in acting like Shran was something suspect, possibly even swayed or corrupted by the Dark Side… but no, that was _why_ he was being cautious; both Jedi Masters were acting dangerously close-minded, hiding from the looming possibility that a Sith threat of the sort the Republic hadn’t seen in five hundred was gaining hold.  He couldn’t take any chances.

 

Shaking his head, he turned to the remote terminal and began punching in the code that would allow him to securely access his personal files.  Shran knew that while his personal files wouldn’t be copied to the terminal, an over-inquisitive Jedi with high enough security clearance and a little bit of slicing know-how would still be able to track which files he had accessed and potentially use them as a back door into his personal files.  So, Shran took the extra few minutes to secure the terminal, lock out the normal tracking software, and protect and isolate his files before he accessed them.  At worst, Uriel and Zachariah might be able to tell he had accessed _something_ through the terminal or that he’d encrypted some files through it.  But they wouldn’t know what he’d retrieved and they couldn’t get into his personal files.  If the Force was with him, they might not even know he’d been there.

 

Once the terminal was secure he began pulling up files and compiling them into an encrypted bundle he could append to his holomessage to Master Yoda.  He gathered the original files from the Maranai excavation—the ones Winchester and his brother had stolen during the University Library break-in almost a year before—and pulled the records he’d pulled from the archives about the Lost Prophecy. 

 

To that, he added the records the Council had made when Miss’Ouri Ot’Kla resigned, the witness descriptions of Sith possession on Ossus, the record fragments he’d pulled from the dig site there, and his own reports dating back to the beginning of the investigation back when it was just a bunch of improbable fires and even more improbable energy readings.  He even included the information he’d held back from his official reports to the council—everything he’d gathered about the Healer and Guide, the presence and patterns of Force Signatures on Manaan, the details he’d pulled on John Winchester’s background, his suspicion that Cas Tiel actually was who he claimed to be—everything. 

 

When he was about halfway through compressing and encrypting the files, he heard voices drifting in from elsewhere on the level.  They were pretty distant, starting out, unsurprisingly, from direction of the turbolifts and never coming considerably closer, or moving much at all that Shran could tell.  It was odd, because the voices were loud enough to carry across the expanse of the Hall and down his corridor and through the door—Jedi seldom spoke with such irreverence when in the Hall of Knighthood out of respect for its solemnity of purpose and the overall _tranquility_ of the Tranquility spire. 

 

He was pretty sure he heard Master Uriel’s booming tone, but without enhancing his hearing through the Force—which would mean magnifying his Force presence and alerting others to his location—Shran couldn’t make out the content of the conversation.  He was pretty sure Uriel and whomever he was with hadn’t detected his presence, and he’d really prefer to keep it that way.  So, keeping one ear attuned to any noises from beyond the door, he finished the task of assembling the information and turned back to the holocomm itself.

 

When he was confident there were no more voices coming from the corridor, Shran stretched out with his senses and confirmed the level was indeed empty once again.  He could make a holorecording of his message to Master Yoda without fear of being overheard.  As he pulled his awareness back into himself, he felt a painful _tug_ , where the Force seemed almost to rip away from him, breaking his contact entirely for a moment.  It left Shran feeling shaken; he had never sensed anything like that nothingness before, as if the Force were actually _gone_ and permanently out of reach.  Even his brief exposure to the ysalimiri on Myrkr hadn’t felt so— _final_. 

 

He was pretty sure he’d felt his heart skip a few beats when he’d lost contact too. Something was definitely wrong, and it was getting worse.  All the more reason to try to contact Master Yoda quickly, surely his voluminous knowledge and experience would help solve this mystery too.

 

Knowing the chances of reaching Master Yoda in person were slim, Shran opted to send a recorded holomessage instead.  He smoothed his robes, and centered himself on the chair in front of the holocam, hoping to convey an image of sanity and sincerity through his holoimage.  When the whir of the holocam signified its recording had begun, Shran wasted no time in spilling everything he knew—and all he even _suspected_.  When he was done, his hands hovered over the controls.  He almost changed his mind and scrapped the message, but finally relented.  Maybe he was crazy, or falling under the influence of some sinister Sith plot, but at least this way Master Yoda would have the full context on which Shran had based his conclusions, and Yoda could evaluate the situation from an _informed_ perspective—not just third hand through the filter of Masters Uriel and Zachariah’s decidedly biased point of view. 

 

Once the data packet he’d assembled was attached, Shran sent three copies: one by hypercomm to the care of the Caamasi delegation (they were likely out of communications range if they were inside Hapan space far away from Republic communications arrays and hampered by the interference of the mists, but it would still probably be the fastest way to reach Yoda), one to the Chu’unthor, and one to Master Yoda’s permanent account.

 

Satisfied he’d done all he could, Master Shran pushed back from the trio of terminals, pivoted the seat around, and stood, stretching out the stiffness that had accumulated.  _How long have I been here?_ Shran found himself wondering.  It struck him as odd, since normally he was so in tune with the force that his internal clock was perfectly calibrated, always aware.  But he honestly couldn’t tell.  He reached out with the force to try to reconnect, and felt the painfully grating tug once again.  _Maybe it really is an uncharted side-effect of the ysalimiri?_ he wondered.  Maybe their influence extended farther than he had thought the longer they were in one place, or maybe they had a strange interaction with so many Force users around?  Those were precisely the sort of unforeseen risks that he was worried about, why he hadn’t wanted to even attempt to use the lizards or take them out of containment storage for any purpose without conducting additional study and research.

 

He shook his head in disbelief and consulted the terminal’s chrono.  An hour had passed since he’d entered the chamber, which meant about two hours had passed since Uriel and Zachariah had escorted Winchester and Tiel to the holding cells.  The rate at which the lizards were affecting the Force—if it was the lizards doing—was alarming.

 

That settled his mind about what to do next.  Meditation might be beneficial, but first, first he’d go and talk to the prisoners.  They had experience with the lizards and might be able to explain what was happening.  Meditation wouldn’t do Shran much good if halfway through his session the lizards’ influence was just going to cut him off from the Force.

 

He confirmed the holocomm was once again turned off and all indication of his presence erased, then started down the hall at a brisk pace, barely registering his surroundings.  He’d see Tiel first, ask the man a little more about his identity, see if he could confirm his suspicions that Tiel really was who he claimed to be, maybe even figure out what had happened to Novak.

 

He continued on across the Hall, this time taking the path that skirted the right side of the level’s central chamber on his approach of the turbolifts.  There were four lifts in the grouping, and Shran strode towards the one farthest back—closest to the end of the hall and nearest to the outside of the tower.  It was the slowest of the four lifts, designated for service utility, it stopped on each and every level of the tower and travelled more slowly than the others. But, when he reached the bottom of the Tranquility Spire, it would give him the speediest egress to the ziggurat’s rooftop and the rest of the Temple proper.

 

If Masters Uriel or Zachariah were really that interested in what he was up to, they could certainly track his movements in the Force—up until he slipped inside the ysalimiri’s influence—or on the Temple security net’s holocams and monitors.  He could try to conceal his presence in the Force, and skirt the most heavily monitored areas of the temple.  Shran was especially grateful, taking the lifts down to the ziggurat’s roof and then transferring to the lift system within the First Knowledge Quarter, where the detention center was located, would allow him to avoid crossing through the atrium or taking any detours through areas of the temple likely to be frequented by Council members.  Shran wasn’t really sure he needed to hide his planned interviews with Tiel and Winchester, but he didn’t really want to invite any further scrutiny or hostility from Uriel or Zachariah, or anyone else on the Council for that matter.

 

As he walked up to the lift’s arched doorway, he glanced around at the relic-filled alcoves, taking in the simple beauty of a wall hanging here and a stone carving there, thinking idly about the voices he had heard earlier, wondering what Master Uriel had been doing up here talking so loudly. 

 

There were no scheduled ceremonies.  Uriel’s loudness suggested he hadn’t been meditating, and Shran hadn’t heard the Master move towards the other comm chamber.  There wasn’t any other reason to be up here, though, so, it was strange.  Shran had almost dismissed the thought from his mind, however, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye as he turned to face the turbolift.

 

His steps stuttered to a stop and he drew up short.  _That wasn’t there before..._   He took a few steps forward towards the end of the hall and the previously empty pedestal that occupied the alcove there, his eyes focusing on the object he’d noticed.

 

It was a lightsaber.  And it looked familiar.  Very, very familiar.  It already bore a temporary plaque of hastily engraved duraplast.

 

Shran’s eyes glanced over the sleek silver of the hilt with the contrasting brushed pewter of the flared emitter.  The pink and blue stones inlaid in a graceful ring just below the emitter jogged his memory.  It was the lightsaber Dean Winchester had been carrying! 

 

Master Zachariah had taken it from Winchester along with his utility belt when they’d questioned Winchester and Tiel in the Council chamber.  Shran assumed Zachariah had taken the lightsaber, utility belt, and other confiscated items to a secure storage space or possibly his own quarters.  Like many Council members assigned to the Temple, Zachariah had a suite of rooms about half way up the High Council Quarter of the ziggurat.  The suite had its own private shuttle dock and shuttle, copious meditation space, and safes with excellent security, which made it an ideal place for securing important items.

 

 _So why is Winchester’s lightsaber_ here _?_

 

Shran looked down at the plaque.  Blinked.  Blinked again, his fingers reaching forward of their own accord, hovering mere millimeters from the lightsaber, as if the Force was beckoning him to touch.  His eyes danced over the inscription reading it again and again, as if somehow that would make it seem more real.

 

 _Lightsaber of Mary Campbell, Jedi Shadow from Toprawa.  Embellished with blue seafa stones and bits of pink feldspar from her home planet, this lightsaber was constructed with the unique Aequitas Animae crystal at its core.  The famed crystal was a gift to Jedi Campbell from Master Belar Joran who instructed Campbell as a Padawan._

 

Shran couldn’t suppress the gasp of surprise.  Campbell had disappeared and her lightsaber had been believed lost.  The Council had tried to find her, and—due largely to the crystal’s popular mythology—hoped at least to retrieve the lightsaber if it turned out Campbell had indeed met her demise, but she had vanished, completely, utterly, thoroughly, taking all traces of her lightsaber with her. 

 

Legend had it that the _Aequitas Animae_ was first found five-thousand years ago— _right around the time the Sith Lord Azazel had led his uprising_.  It was supposed to have been shaped and crystallized _by_ the Force itself spontaneously appearing to a Jedi meditating outside the Library on Ossus.  The crystal was supposed to be pure, flawless—the ideal, balanced medium through which to channel the Force.  It was supposed to produce a brilliant, sparkling, green blade of unequalled strength.  A blade that would never fail its Jedi and would give a definite edge in any confrontation.

 

Master Joran had been the last in a long line of Jedi Masters who had been entrusted with the protection of the _Aequitas Animae_.  Supposedly the Force had told him that Campbell was destined to wield a blade made from it.  He had died not long after giving the stone to her, and many in the order had wondered if Joran had somehow been led astray when Campbell herself disappeared under suspicious circumstances and the _Aequitas Animae_ vanished with her.

 

At least that was what Shran remembered.  He’d been a but a child when Campbell had crafted the lightsaber, and a very inexperienced Padawan just assigned to his first Master, not yet knowing he would follow in her shoes and become a Shadow himself, when she had disappeared, but the _Aequitas Animae_ and the lightsaber that contained it were instant legends, so he knew the story well.

 

 _How did Winchester get his hands on it?_ Shran wondered.

 

His fingers brushed the hilt.  It was cool, soothing to the touch, but yet, he felt a warm surge of Force energy flow through him the moment his skin made contact, revealing the power held within.  He’d never felt anything like it. It was as if the Force was calling to him, begging him to thumb the pewter switch to activate the blade, pick up the lightsaber, and take it with him.  The blade yearned to be used, was meant to be; it should not be contained, abandoned on display.  It took all the control he had to pull himself away, not give in. 

 

Belatedly, he wondered if he’d set off an alarm of some kind.  Surely Uriel or Zachariah wouldn’t have just left such a prized and sought-after artifact alone on the pedestal without extra protection?  While the end alcove had been the temporary home of many important and well-known artifacts, none of those stored there during Shran’s lifetime had approached the legendary status of the _Aequitas Animae_ , and yet the counsel had afforded at least three of those relics extra security.

 

He reached out again, fighting the painful pull-drag that once again whipped through the Force, searching, and found nothing.  No alarm.  No alert.  No electrical impulses.  No strange activity of any kind.  A quick inspection of the pedestal revealed no electronic, mechanical, or biotech sensors, alarms, or tripwires of any kind.  It was just sitting there in the open for anyone to find!

 

But then again, no one knew Winchester had the lightsaber or that it was in the Temple.  Only he, Zachariah, Uriel, Winchester, and Tiel had been in the chamber when Winchester was questioned, and since Winchester had worn a long robe over his clothes, it was unlikely anyone else in the Temple or on the way _to_ the Temple had seen what the lightsaber looked like, or even knew Winchester had carried the Jedi weapon.  And, as Shran had observed just moments before, no one ever came to the Hall of Knighthood without a good reason.  No one else had been up here when Uriel and whoever he was with—probably Master Zachariah—had placed the blade, and they hadn’t known Shran was there.  If Shran hadn’t been there, the lightsaber might have sat for weeks, maybe even months before someone noticed it.  So, leaving it hiding in the open made a strange kind of sense.  There would be ample time before the next formal knighting ceremony to install better security.

 

Should he _take_ it?  Could it be important?  Part of Shran was appalled to find himself asking, but Force continued its pleas for him to pick it up; hold it; take it.  _No.  Not yet._   Shran didn’t know what was going on; he needed to get to the bottom of it before he committed to an irreversible course of action and got in over his head.

 

 _You already are in over your head.  The Order is drowning in this, don’t you see?  It’s your job to pull them out of it.  Show the way, fight the Darkness, or there won’t_ be _a future._

 

He shuddered at the certainty in the voice in the back of his mind.  It had a hint of Force command to it, and Shran wasn’t sure if it was his own.  Breathing deeply, he pulled his fingers away from the lightsaber and turned back towards the turbolifts, jabbing with uncharacteristic impatience at the button that would summon it to his level.  Answers, he needed answers, and fast.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 12:**

 _Sith Containment Cells, Jedi Temple, Coruscant_ (present day)

 

 _Think, Dean, think!_   Dean scolded himself as he paced back and forth across the tiny cell. It was only about four meters long and three meters wide, so he didn’t have that much room to move, but he was making the most of the space he had, his eyes flicking frantically over the cramped, dimly lit space full of shadows and cast in an eerie glow.  The walls and floor were made of blocks of roughhewn stone, probably rich in cortosis ore, to prevent anyone from cutting through it with a lightsaber.  The front wall that looked out on the never-ending, high-ceilinged hall, where the now nonexistent door had been, was a semitransparent panel of what Dean assumed was some sort of transparisteel alloy.  It glowed a sickening orangey pink that reminded him vaguely of Bacta.  The luminescence of the door… _doorwall_ … hadn’t really registered when he’d landed in the cell, but now it shone like an ominous beacon of doom, cutting through the gloom.

 

He wasn’t sure if you could spin cortosis fibers to be transparent, but if you _could_ he was willing to bet the Jedi had put some of that in the doorwall too.  Even if the ore—famous for shorting out lightsabers— _wasn’t_ in the door, Dean was pretty confident there was no way anyone was getting through it from the inside or outside unless the Jedi expressly wished it.  He’d made _that_ mistake when they’d first thrown him in here. 

 

Dean had thrown up his hand to lean against the vanishing door in frustration and received a shock unlike any he’d experienced before.  Before his skin even touched the door he was frozen, a lightning-fast buzzing sensation had zoomed out from the door, up his outstretched arm, and through his body.  At first it just tingled, then it was cold, and then it exploded—millions of sparks of white-hot pain blasting through him and tearing like a firestorm across his nerve endings, overloading synapses, causing him to cry out.  Then he was crumpling to the floor, convulsing in pain.  Before he passed out, he felt it searching him, scanning him, reaching out with the Force in a way he’d never felt before—it reminded him of Sam’s description of what the Rune pedestal had felt like when it scanned him _only with more pain_ —and then everything was lost to blackness.

 

When he’d awakened, Dean immediately knew something was wrong.  The twisting, searing, tearing tug of the Force was missing.  There was a split second of clarity when he awoke, he felt free, healthy, whole, light, much like he recalled feeling as a very small child.  The blissful unburdening didn’t last long though, as the _absence_ of the Force’s warring tug slammed into him like a stampeding Bantha. 

 

He thought at first that maybe somehow the last ten months of his life had been a dream.  Dad had never disappeared or died.  He’d never gone looking for Sam.  The fire had never happened.  Jess had never died.  Azazel had never returned.  Sam hadn’t died… and he hadn’t touched the Force.  But then reality took over.  He knew this; he’d experienced it before:  the bizarre _void_ where the Force should be, his inability to touch even that tiny spark inside him that had been there all his life, the place where his mother’s memory lived, the terrifying blindness like someone had turned off all the lights and noise in the universe and cast him apart—separated from every other living being…  It was _ysalimir_. 

 

Yeah, it had pretty much floored Dean when he figured out.  The _Jedi_ , the obnoxious, stuck-up, sanctimonious, holier-than-though, Order with both a superiority complex and a savior complex, had gotten their hands on some Force-negating lizards and were using them to keep prisoners subdued.  Maybe he was wrong, but that seemed to violate their goody-two-shoes image just a little bit.  Then again, Dad had always thought the Jedi were two-faced and hypocritical.  Like a croke… one of the tiny, evil shape-shifting illusionists that had popped up from time to time throughout history and wreaked havoc on all around them.  Dean had thought he was overstating it a bit, but now…

 

Putting a Force-sensitive in a room with an ysalimir without their knowledge was akin to torture.

 

As Dean lay there on his back on the cool, stone floor looking up at the impossibly high arched ceiling where it disappeared into shadows above, he got over the injustice and indignity of the Jedi’s behavior pretty quickly as far more dire consequences began flooding in.  _If I’m not touching the Force right now, then who is healing it?_   The answer— _No one_ —came to him far too quickly.  He was the Healer; no one else had been given that task or ability. 

 

The realization chilled him to the bone. Being the Healer had always felt like a burden. But now…  _Now?_   All life depended on the Force, but as Darth Azazel pushed closer and closer to his goal, the balance between dark and light skewed exponentially in the direction of the Dark Side.  How long would it take with the Force not being able to touch him for it to tear irreversibly and send the universe tumbling to a speedy end?  After all, the act of Sam and Azazel combining their powers was supposed to create an imbalance so powerful and complete, that even Dean couldn’t repair it.  As much as he’d dreaded the prospect of losing—since the universe would die with it—Dean had taken comfort in the knowledge that if the time came, he would be the first casualty as the Force tore itself and him apart from the inside. He wouldn’t have to deal with the dread of waiting for the shockwave to hit him, or the pain of seeing Sammy fall.

 

But now, how long would it take before the universe died anyway?  How long did the Force have?  Did the Jedi know they were damning themselves and everyone else?

 

He guessed the answer to that last question was ‘no.’ Disbelief in the Prophecy, especially _his_ part in it, was the driving Force behind the Council’s actions. They didn’t want to be wrong.  It made sense.  He sure as hell hadn’t wanted to believe that he _alone_ bore the responsibility for holding the Force together, or that the Force was so fragile, so close to tearing _itself_ apart.  Besides, it seemed so preposterous…  But the problem was the Jedi had stopped paying objective attention to the facts, the truth, the reality of what was going on around them.  Rather than inquiring further, they’d retreated, entrenched in their beliefs, wanting so badly to believe the Lost Prophecy couldn’t be true, that the Healer couldn’t be real, that they’d convinced themselves it was truth.  This belief in _dis_ belief in the Prophecy had transmuted to insistence to aggression and now suppression. The Order had put everything in the Sabacc pot thinking they had Pure Sabacc only to have the randomizer change their cards as the bet was called so they were left holding “The Idiot” and a whole lot of nothing. Only it was worse than that, Dean had realized. In his brief contact with Master Zachariah, their minds had touched.  Zachariah still firmly believed he was right. It was written in the contempt he had for Dean.

 

Dean had laid like that for he wasn’t sure how long—another side effect of being cut off from the Force was Dean’s sense of time was warped; he didn’t know how long he’d been out, and since waking up, he had only the vaguest sense of how much time had passed—the most immediately disastrous result of being in a ysalimir’s sphere of influence became painfully clear.

 

It started when he felt the familiar burning tug in his gut.  Instinctively and reflexively he reached inside himself to heal it. But of course the Force wasn’t there!  Momentary disorientation turned to heart-thumping dread.  One by one the other aches and pains made themselves known—the pounding in his head, bruises along his spine from where he’d been thrown down the stairs, the tightness in his chest that came when the stresses of Healing the Force were at their greatest. As the Force tore itself apart, it tore Dean apart too.  Usually he would draw on his powers to mend the biggest tears in the force and _then_ heal himself—otherwise it was like trying to stitch together a seam while it was still being torn apart. As a result, his own injuries often lagged a little behind.  And now it looked like whenever his connection to the Force had been severed, the injuries had piled up.

 

He was wounded, bleeding internally, and he couldn’t _heal_!  Dean turned around in yet another circle stumbling slightly against the wall as he did. He tried to right himself, but a wave of dizziness overcame him, and he began to fall. Instead, he clutched at the wall for support and awkwardly lowered himself to the ground. At least the walls weren’t charged like the doorwall. One bright spot!

 

It didn’t take long for him to realize there _was_ another bright spot.  He was clutching the wall with his hands… his _bare_ hands.  Master Zachariah had taken his gloves along with his lightsaber and utility belt.  He was in a holding cell… probably a _Sith Containment Cell_ , his memory supplied for him.  If he’d been in contact with the Force, he’d definitely be picking up on the Force echoes of everyone who’d been imprisoned in the cell, everyone who’d touched its walls.  Considering the type of inhabitants the cell had likely had over the millennia and the strength their emotions and memories would likely have, Dean was a little lucky.  There would be almost no way he could block out the cacophony, and that would make using the Force, planning an escape, or even _thinking_ nearly impossible.  _On the other hand, I wouldn’t be bleeding to death while the Force tears itself apart_ , Dean mused bitterly.

 

He looked almost longingly at the semitransparent instrument of his imprisonment. It was so tempting to reach out and touch it. It would hurt, but then he’d be gone, out, probably just never wake up again… and what happened to your soul if you died in a place where the Force could not reach? Would the force field on the wall even still work if it couldn’t use the force to search him? —maybe he was being cowardly, but it sure beat the feeling of having his lungs slowly collapse and his belly gradually fill with blood. Yeah, his death would likely mean the universe was well and truly blasted... but he was starting to think there was no way around that now.

 

Even if he did escape or otherwise slipped outside the lizard’s Forceless bubble, he doubted it would help. The Force had been tearing unchecked, so when his connection to the force was restored, it would likely hit him with a debilitating backlash. He was already weak and growing weaker by the minute.  Dean doubted his body could withstand the assault. Even if he could knit the Force back together and re-stabilize it, the damage it would cause, combined with his current injuries would probably kill him before he could heal himself.  It would be but a short reprieve for the universe.

 

Maybe... Maybe if Cas was here _he_ could help Dean heal, repair some of the worst damage—or at least keep him from deteriorating further, at least until the Force was back in check.  Maybe with Cas, he could make it. Only he didn’t know where Cas was or if he was even alive, or if Dean could reach Cas _before_ he left the ysalimiri’s influence.

 

More than anything, right now he missed _Cas_.  Not knowing where Cas was, not having his presence as a reassuring constant in the back of Dean’s mind felt like a piece of his soul had been torn away.  He kept reaching, stretching, expecting to feel that familiar connection, and finding dead ends and emptiness was doing nothing but adding to the rising panic inside.  It amazed him; Dean had resisted Cas at first—both his message about Dean’s role as the Healer and the growing bond between them—but over the past eight months Cas had wormed his way in, ghosted under Dean’s defenses until Dean wasn’t entirely sure where he ended and Cas began.  For a few moments he let himself drift, trying to bask in the _thought_ of Cas, as if maybe that would provide some comfort.

 

The room was swirling around him.  The shadowed ceiling, what little of it he could see, seemed to be spiraling in and out of focus, the shadows playing like ghosts across its surface.  It would be very easy to just give up.  Give in.  Concede defeat. 

 

 _You gonna let the Jedi win, Dean?  You gonna let Azazel take your brother?_   It was John’s voice.  Dean knew it couldn’t be coming through the Force, but there it was, pushing through from the back of his mind, that internal source of motivation that had always pushed him to go farther no matter how bleak the situation.  His father’s voice and lessons were so ingrained in his sense of being that it didn’t require the Force to be heard.

 

And that…  That gave Dean Winchester pause.  _Suck it up, Winchester_ , he thought, _You were a hunter for_ decades _before you realized you could use the Force.  You gonna let some stupid lizard knock you down?  Or are you gonna show the Jedi how a_ Hunter _deals with this situation?_

 

Dean closed his eyes.  Took a deep breath.  Focused.  Centered himself.  Sure the meditation techniques and breathing exercises were designed with the Force in mind, but he could still find his equilibrium without the Force’s help.  _There_.  It felt _different_ without the Force flowing through him, but he needn’t be so disoriented.  He still had functioning senses, and they were better honed than most people’s—even most Jedi’s. 

 

Once Dean didn’t feel like he was going to keel over, he turned his focus on cataloguing his injuries.  From the burning, cramping sensation in his gut, he could tell he was bleeding somewhere in his abdomen.  He pressed his hand to his belly; flinched when he realized the tell-tale rigidity.  That was not good.  Crippling effects of healing the Force or no, he wasn’t going to last long at this rate.  But nothing he could do about it right now. 

 

What could he do?  Dean looked around cataloguing the cell for the first time.  There wasn’t much there.  He had been stripped to his pants, boots, and tunic.  His fingers clasped around the empty air at his hip where his mother’s— _his_ —lightsaber should be.  The Jedi still had it and his utility belt.  The room itself was almost bare, not even a bunk; either the Jedi didn’t intend it for long-term use, or they were too fearful of what someone could make out of a simple bunk.  However, the cell wasn’t without _any_ amenities.  There was a very simple sink and rudimentary toilet in the corner of the room adjacent to where he had slumped against the wall.  Because both fixtures were so simplistic, they had detachable mechanical handles for operation, and—he cocked his head sideways—there were visible bolts attaching the toilet to the floor and the sink to the wall.  He filed that information away, unsure of how he could use it.

 

His scanned across the small space, eyes moving in an arc.  On the far wall, there was a single blue-green glowpanel, the only thing providing illumination in his personal prison, besides the faint, pink glow of the doorwall’s forcefield.  The faceplate of the glowpanel was almost flush with the stone wall, but could probably be pried free _if_ he could reach it.  Its base was about three meters off the ground.  With the walls three meters apart, there was no way he could crab spider walk up to it.

 

Dean looked over to the door wall again.  In the corner closest to him was a small rectangular patch that was more opaque than the rest of the wall.  Leaning over to take a closer look—careful not to accidentally shock himself—he could see faint blinking lights and square outlines that suggested the circuitry that was powering the wall and its mysterious disappearing door.  Squinting, he could even make out a faint seam… if the forcefield was deactivated, the seam probably indicated the access hatch, if he could get _that_ open, he might be able to override whatever was closing the door and get out.

 

 _Get out and go where?_   He had a vague recollection of the twists and turns Master Zachariah had dragged him through on his way there, but he doubted that was the most direct route out of the Temple.  He also didn’t know where the boundaries of the ysalimir or ysalimiri’s influence were.  He _did_ know that the lizard or lizards had been moved into place _after_ he’d arrived.  It was possible the bubble only extended to just beyond the bounds of his cell, but assuming the Jedi had also taken Cas to a cell somewhere down here, chances were they had at least one ysalimir around him too. 

 

He didn’t know how many lizards there were.  If his previous experience with ysalimiri—the Guardian and the other lizards Bobby had collected from Myrkr—was typical, one ysalimir’s influence could create a sphere with a radius anywhere from three meters to _maybe_ ten meters in radius.  Ysalimiri placed strategically seemed to amplify each other’s power and created a slightly larger pocket of Force-absence than they would individually.  Judging by the size of his cell, and well the _lack_ of an obvious lizard inside it, either there was more than one ysalimir or the lizard was _very_ close by—in the wall, under the floor, or maybe right outside the door.

 

If Dean could get out, he could try to inch his way around, maybe find the edge of the ysalimiri bubble?  Perhaps if he inched his way over it, he could get a read on Cas, _if_ he was outside, and pop back inside the bubble before the impact of the Force took him out?  It was probably wishful thinking, but then again, maybe he could find Cas first, if he was in the same area and the two bubbles were interconnected. 

 

 _Won’t they see me?_   It was a risk, for sure, but he didn’t see any sensors immediately apparent.  It was entirely possible that the doorwall was laden with them, but that was a risk he’d have to take.  If that were the case, his escape attempt would probably be a short one; they would certainly come running long before he got through even the _first_ phase of his plan. 

 

He looked at the toilet.  Getting the bolts off would be hard but… he looked down at his boots… if he unbuckled his boots, maybe the buckle could give him some extra torque…  Dean shook his head, regretting it when he felt instantly woozy; not a good sign, he had already bled too much.  What he wouldn’t give for a hydrospanner, or better yet, his lightsaber. 

 

Dean shifted his gaze up the wall to the sink, the handles should be pretty easy to unscrew, especially if he used his boot buckles, and since they were so thin and insubstantial, they’d make great tools to pry that cover off the glowpanel.  Or, Dean thought looking down at his boots critically; the buckle on his boot was attached to a leather strap, which was itself sewn onto the boot.  If he could rip that off, maybe he could combine it with the faucet handle?  Make some kind of strap-wrench?  It might work…

 

He calculated the height of the toilet; mentally transposed its location to the wall where the glowpanel stat.  Yep, it should give him enough height.  From there, it would be a little over five meters… almost five-and-a-quarter, maybe less if he could pull the wiring from the corner of the panel closest to the door wall… from there to the access hatch.  He should be able to pull that much cable, right?  If not, maybe he could at least reach the near part of the door wall and short out the forcefield.  From there, he’d just have to see what he could jury-rig inside the door wall itself.  Who knew, maybe disrupting the forcefield would shut off all power to the strange wall.  Maybe it would make the door open.  Maybe it would opaque the blasted thing and send the cell into lockdown.  Either way, it would probably show up on the Jedi’s monitors.

 

It was a risk he’d have to take.  Otherwise, it was just sitting here, bleeding out, and waiting to die, knowing he’d be taking the whole damn universe with him if he did.  One thing he knew for sure though was as long as the ysalimiri were in place, the Jedi were as blind as he was.  And without his hunter skills and _with_ their lifelong connection to the Force, they’d be a hell of a lot less comfortable moving around down here than he was.  That was one advantage he was willing to play for all it was worth.

 

Steeling himself, Dean hauled himself to his feet, panting and wavering as a strong wave of nausea overtook him.  He pulled his arm across his stiffening abdomen, clutching, as if somehow that would keep the sickness at bay; stop the bleeding.  He took advantage of his hunched-over position and got to work unbuckling his right boot, noticing how cold and stiff his fingers already were.  _Sithspit_.  Well, that was it.  There was nothing else to it.  This plan would either work, or it wouldn’t.  His boots freed, Dean dropped to his hands and knees and got to work loosening the toilet from its moorings.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 13:**

 _Jedi_ _Temple_ _, Coruscant_ (present day)

 

Shran had realized about half way through his tediously slow descent from the top of Tranquility Spire to its base at the top center of the temple proper that his plan was flawed.  Seriously flawed.  Yes, he was avoiding the atrium, the High Council Quarter, and many other populous areas, but getting to the cells where Winchester and Tiel were imprisoned without announcing his presence _or_ intent to everyone in the Temple would be tricky, to say the least.

 

The Temple had its own detention center that rivaled the most complex prison or brig in terms of size and functionality.  It occupied four levels of the First Knowledge Quarter, which was the North-Western fourth of the Temple where most of the younglings’ and Padawans’ training and schooling took place.  What was the wisdom of placing the detention center _there_ , Shran didn’t know and had certainly never been able to fathom, but there it was and had been for at least the last millennium. 

 

There were several different parts of the detention center, each with its own distinct purpose.  The Asylum, the portion of the detention center in which Master Zachariah had spoken of permanently housing Ysalimiri on their life-sustaining Olbio trees, occupied the top two levels, and was by far the most comfortable of the detention center’s modules.  The simple holding cells used for everything from non-Jedi intruders to those among the Order adjudged guilty of minor infractions occupied the level below that.  The first level of the detention center was the home of the Sith Containment Cells, and undoubtedly where Winchester and Tiel were being housed.

 

The ominous level had its own separate entrances and was completely separated from the surrounding temple.  The only way in or out of the level was through the one secure turbolift Masters Uriel and Zachariah had used to return to the atrium after locking up Winchester and Tiel and via a single, narrow, spiraling access staircase that was also secured and only allowed entry to the level from below.

 

Of the two options, which Shran would use was an easy choice.  The turbolift that served the Sith Containment Cells was too closely watched and too heavily alarmed.  The ordinary turbolifts that transported students and teachers alike throughout the First Knowledge Quarter bypassed the level, simply not stopping there.  The turbolift that _did_ provide access was another slow utility transport like the one Shran was using to descend from the Hall of Knighthood, and it required passengers to pass a bioscan, vocal keycode, and Force lock before it would open its doors on that level.  All of which, were immediately transmitted to the person or persons upon whose order anyone presently imprisoned in the cells was being detained.  In other words, if Master Shran tried to access the level from the turbolift, he would immediately announce his presence there to both Zachariah and Uriel… not exactly an ideal situation.

 

The security could be overcome, but that would take time and effort, and far more planning than he really had time for, especially if the lizards _were_ causing the strange, fragmented, grating sensation that permeated is connection to the Force.

 

That left the staircase.  The stairs began at the level immediately above the Room of a Thousand Fountains—the interior hanging gardens and meditation center, which took up the first seven levels of the First Knowledge Quarter—three levels below the detention center.  That level housed the various controls and entrances to the network of catwalks, lights, pipes, and ductwork that keepers of the Temple used for maintaining the Room below.  The stairs continued on up through the level immediately above, which housed plant keeping supplies, food for the various fish in the Room’s many rivers and pools, and other odds and ends necessary for the general upkeep of the cavernous space. 

 

However, the stairs didn’t provide access to _that_ level.  They did have a door to the level immediately below the detention center, which contained security monitoring equipment, computer terminals, and the computer core backups for all detention center security features.  It also housed secure interrogation rooms—although those would never be used for Sith as they weren’t nearly fortified enough—and sleeping accommodations, ‘freshers, a kitchen, and a small recreation area that were used only when one or more of the detention center levels was sufficiently full enough to warrant the presence of large groups of Jedi Guardians working in round-the-clock shifts. It was a level Shran was very familiar with, having spent much time there overseeing the care of prisoners, conducting interrogations, and generally doing the work of a Jedi Shadow.  The problem was almost no one got off at that level from the main turbolifts.  So, if he were to transfer to that Quarter’s main bank of lifts and get off there, he’d undoubtedly draw unwanted attention.

 

The level above the Room of a Thousand Fountains, on the other hand received much heavier traffic, as many Temple residents used its network of narrow passageways as shortcuts to get between different sections of the Quarter.  He would enter the staircase there and ascend to the Sith Containment Cells.  The door at the top of the stairs was alarmed, but unlike the secure turbolifts, it wouldn’t communicate his presence to Uriel and Zachariah.  Plus, he knew the access codes.

 

With his plan in place, Shran exited the turbolift at the base of Tranquility Spire and walked briskly across the open gardens at its base.  He nodded in passing at the few colleagues he passed as he cut across the gardens between the Temple’s central spire and the entrance to the First Knowledge Quarter.  Here at the top of the Temple Ziggurat, everything felt almost peaceful, clear, transcendent; if not for the unpleasant grating of the Force, he could almost believe it was an ordinary day and he wasn’t about to defy the will of two influential members of the Jedi Council.

 

“Master Shran?” a voice called out to him as he strode briskly down the corridor towards the Quarter’s central turbolifts.

 

“Yes?” he said, trying to keep the annoyance and harshness from his tone, especially when he saw the inquiry belonged to a young, blonde-haired boy of maybe twelve or thirteen, whose hair was cropped short, save for one long braid in the distinctive style of a Padawan.

 

“There’s something wrong with the Force,” the boy spoke.  He stood tall, his hands clasped before him, “I was studying in the archives, and when I reached out with the Force, it felt… broken,” he murmured.  “Do you know what’s causing it?”

 

“Ah,” Shran struggled trying to recall if he’d ever learned the boy’s name.

 

“Michael,” the boy responded with a slight nod.

 

“Michael,” Shran echoed, feeling an uncharacteristic smile break across his face as he stooped slightly to bring himself closer to the boy’s height.  “I do not know for certain, but I have felt it too, and I have a theory that I am going, right now, to investigate.  I promise you I will figure it out,” he added with a solemn nod.

 

“Master Shran, Sir,” Michael replied.  “It feels like the Force needs _healing_ ,” he said meaningfully.  “May the Force be with you.”

 

“May the Force be with you, too, young Padawan,” Shran answered, exchanging a quick bow with Michael before turning away and redoubling his pace towards the turbolifts deep in thought, his surroundings hardly registering as he sped by.

 

Once he stepped inside a—thankfully—empty lift and hit the button for the eighth level of the Quarter—the one above the Room of a Thousand Fountains—it occurred to Shran why young Michael’s words had been so… unsettling.

 

 _The Force needs healing_ …  _The Healer of the Lost Prophecy_ …  Shran had assumed the mythical figure, if he was indeed _mythical_ , was a great healer of beings, much like the Order’s many healers used the Force to cure disease and mend injuries that sometimes even Bacta couldn’t handle.  But the way the boy spoke.  It was almost as if the Padawan _knew_ …  What, that the Force was actually broken?  And the interference Shran had been sensing, the interference he believed was caused by the ysalimiri, was not interference at all? 

 

Shran choked quietly on that thought as the lift filled and then emptied again as they passed the most popular levels of the Archives.  Once the lowest level of the archives was past, he was again alone in the car, and remained that way for the rest of his descent.  Whatever was going on with the Force and the Healer and…  He sighed.  The sooner he got to the detention center, the faster he could get answers.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 14:**

Minutes later, Shran was walking swiftly and quietly along a very arrow corridor that connected the network of corridors near the Quarter’s central turbolifts with the staircase.  Once he’d left the central area behind, he knew his chances of running into anyone were slim.  No one came up here, not to this part of the level, but he wasn’t taking any chances.  This path was primarily used for access to the catwalks that ran above the Room of a Thousand Fountains, allowing the Temple’s gardeners to maintain their work.  It was close to supper time, so even the gardeners were unlikely to be out and about; thus, Shran should be able to avoid having to explain where he was going.

 

At last, he came to the end of the hall.  In front of him was a narrow door that led into the complex of ramps and catwalks over the garden.  To his right was another, identical, door that led to a small complex of rooms containing the electrical and water controls for this section of the fountains and their gardens.  On the left, was an open arch leading to the carved, curved, stone staircase that would lead him to the detention levels above.

 

Shran turned left and took the stairs.  Once, long before Shran’s time, the stairs must have been heavily used, because their surfaces had been worn smooth and slippery from repeated use; combined with the steepness and tight curve, it made them a treacherous climb.  However, nowadays, the staircase was ill-used and had long ago been designated as the emergency service entrance to the Sith Containment Cells.  In all his years in the Order, Shran had only used the stairs once before, so taking this approach to the level was disorienting, unfamiliar.

 

The staircase wound ‘round and ‘round in a spiral taking him past the inaccessible gardening level.  Shran had just passed the sliding door that led to the operations level immediately below the detention center when he felt his connection with the Force abruptly cut off.  He sucked in a pained gasp.  Even though he knew the ysalimiri had been deployed here, and even though he’d felt the sensation before, it was impossible to anticipate the _shock_ stepping into the lizards’ Force-bubble created.

 

They must be blanketing the entire floor with ysalimiri!  Either that, or both prisoners were being held very near the emergency service entrance.  Shran nearly cursed aloud for not checking to see more specifics of where Winchester and Tiel were being held.  He’d assumed—even before he knew Uriel and Zachariah were using lizards—that the Masters would secure both men in the Sith Containment Cells.  He was almost completely sure neither was a Sith now, but if he were to detain any skilled Force-users, that’s where _he’d_ hold them.  The protections and restraints on the normal holding cells would just be too easy to get around.  The problem facing Shran was that the detention center was huge. It took up the entire Quarter for four levels.  Knowing Winchester and Tiel were being held in the Sith Containment Cells didn’t really answer the question of where they were.  There were several different cell blocks, corridors, twists and turns and places the prisoners could be and any number of optional security protocols that could be activated. 

 

Shran realized now, of course, it would have been a good idea to check and see which cells they were in _and_ get an idea of what other security measures were in place.  He had no idea how closely the High Council members were watching the detention center or what other alarms or extra security measures they had in place.  And with the ysalimiri in place, there was no way Shran could _sense_ any of those details.  Shran hadn’t thought… even though he _knew_ the lizards were in place, he really hadn’t considered how their presence would effect him, how it would change the parameters of how he had to function.

 

Shran decided to make a quick, but necessary, detour back down to the operations level immediately below the detention center.  He turned and ran, moving so quickly he almost tripped over his feet when the force flooded back to him—even if it did feel very choppy.  He reached out, pressing his palms to the walls, steadying himself just enough to avoid tumbling down the slick stone steps.  Gulping in air and grounding himself as best he could, Shran more nimbly descended the last few stairs to the door, pausing just long enough to punch in his security code and open the door before darting inside. 

 

Not even waiting for the door to swish shut behind him, Shran hurried to the closest computer terminal and brought up diagrams showing the current security protocols for each level of the detention center, doing his best to cover his tracks and conceal his inquiry as he went.

 

His eyes widened in shock when the schematics of the detention center came into view.  _That can’t be right!_ he thought.  Shran hastily consulted the spec files, fingers flying over the controls, almost stabbing the touch screen in their ferocity.  _Ten ysalimiri!_   But he had only brought back four from his investigative mission on Myrkr...  The High Council must have sent another envoy….

 

That was the only explanation, because the schematic and requisition list in the spec files both showed ten lizards deployed evenly throughout the level that housed the Sith Containment Cells.  Five were placed at floor level in empty cells, evenly spaced throughout the level, and the other five were suspended from the high ceiling by the life-sustaining nutrient frames to which the lizards were attached once separated from the Olbio trees on which they lived.

 

The terminal’s 2-D status display showed red, cloud-like, spherical outlines of slightly differing sizes overlapping throughout the level, and a somewhat larger blue ellipsoid that seemed to blanket half of the Sith Containment level, and some of the space above and below it.  The smaller, red spheres looked eerily like the Force-absent zones he’d observed on Manaan and again, briefly on Myrkr.  That meant the spheres must be approximations of each lizard’s individual sphere of influence, and the blue...

 

The blue ellipsoid must be the magnifying effect!  The full extent of the lizards’ influence.

 

Putting many lizards together so their bubbles overlapped seemed to amplify the overall effect, filing in any interstitial gaps and pushing the boundaries farther out.  Shran had suspected something like that happened based on his observations on Myrkr, but he’d not had time to finalize the research.  But this was proof...  And someone in the Order already had the knowledge to implement it. 

 

He felt a great sinking sensation as he realized that someone—probably Uriel and Zachariah—had been researching the ysalimiri behind his back, possibly even without the knowledge of anyone working as a Jedi shadow.  Shran had always been loyal to the Order.  Yet now, when it seemed like the Order might be betrayed from the inside by its leaders’ own refusal to open their eyes and critically examine current events, his loyalty and dedication to the _Order_ and the Jedi Code… to what Jedi were supposed to stand for, seemed to make him a prime target—a scapegoat.

 

He pushed the uneasiness aside and focused on the schematics.  Both Nov—Cas Tiel—and Dean Winchester were indeed being kept in Sith Containment.  Tiel was in a cell only a few doors down from where the emergency staircase emptied into the level.  Winchester was housed almost as far away from Tiel as he could get and still be within the lizards’ sphere of influence.  Whereas Tiel’s cell, and the staircase, were close to the center of the Temple Ziggurat, not that far from where the four Quarters joined, Dean’s cell was much closer to the Western outer wall of the Temple and further to the north, roughly parallel with where the secure turbolift entered the level, only much farther to the outside. 

 

The Sith Containment Cells were laid out much like the temple itself—four different cell blocks arrayed around a central core.  The secure turbolift emptied into that central area, the other lifts that didn’t stop on the level passed through a reinforced bulkhead adjacent to the secure lift.  Forming a circle about three meters out from the turbolift shaft was a dual-layer, reinforced alloyed-transparisteel barrier equipped with ray shielding.  It was almost identical to the material used to form the front walls of the containment cells, except fully transparent.  Like the cell walls, there was current running through the circular wall, and long ago the Jedi had figured out a way to actually channel the Force into the wall as well, so anyone touching it would receive both a nasty shock from the ray shield _and_ get knocked back with the Force. 

 

 _Huh_ , Shran thought.  _Guess they decided that security measure was okay to sacrifice_.  After all, there was no way the Force repellence could work in the presence of ysalimiri. 

 

Also like the containment cell walls, when the current was deactivated to a portion of the wall, it would transform from one solid, unbroken piece and a sliding door would appear within the deactivated portion of the wall.  When a Jedi accessed the level through the secure turbolift, he or she would have to go through a series of identification protocols before the portion of the wall leading to the cell block he or she needed to access would deactivate.  Part of those protocols involved checking all weapons, _especially_ lightsabers, in a Force-encoded storage locker just to the right of the turbolift doors.

 

There were also four guard stations located outside the security perimeter, in the space between the lift and the ray-shielded wall.  One station outside the hidden door to each of the four cell blocks.  When there were enough Sith present to warrant extra security one or more of the stations would be staffed with armed Jedi Guardians whose primary task was to prevent any would-be escapees from reaching the turbolift.

 

Shran consulted the schematic again.  The ysalimiri’s field of influence was oriented so it didn’t blanket the central core.  It made sense; if either prisoner were able to get outside of their cells without the assistance of the Force, they would still be trapped inside the secure perimeter by a fully charged ray-shielded, Force-probe equipped wall _and_ have to contend with the turbolift’s security.  He noticed that both Tiel and Winchester were near to the outside of the ysalimiri’s sphere of influence, but still with a buffer the size of several cells between them and the terminus of Force bubble—probably a side effect of trying to keep the prisoners away from each other while still managing to configure the lizards so that the central chamber and turbolift were unaffected.

 

But why was the emergency stair _inside_ the bubble?  Shran stroked at his chin in contemplation, tapping one elbow with the fingers of his other hand.  It could be an oversight, but that was unlikely.  The door was concealed on the inside, and pretty much impossible to open without knowing where it was and the codes to open it.  If either prisoner made it outside the ysalimiri’s influence, Shran and Zachariah would be able to sense them… and they’d be confined to a narrow, unfamiliar staircase with limited access to other parts of the temple.  Not to mention the part of the temple they would be in was labyrinthine.  Winchester had no familiarity with the Temple, and Novak—whom Zachariah and Uriel believed Tiel to be—had never had duties that would make him familiar with this area.  It made sense, in that cocky, inconsiderate sort of way that seemed to be the Masters’ trademark.

 

As a result of the configuration, there was also no way for the prisoners to reach _each other_ , at least not without exiting the lizards’ zone of influence, getting by the fully functional security wall, and then getting back _in_ though it to access the other cell block, since there was no connection between the cell blocks except though the central core.  _That’s going to be a problem if we need to make a quick exit_ , Shran thought before he realized _what_ he was thinking.

 

He was going to _talk to_ Tiel and Winchester, not _free_ them.  What was wrong with him?  In the span of a few hours he’d gone from questioning whether Tiel might actually be telling the truth to entertaining thoughts of staging a prison break from within the Jedi temple?  _Search your feelings, Gariq, it is the Force prompting you; you know their detention is not just.  Freeing them may well be necessary.  For the good of the Republic.  For the good of all life.  For the good of the_ Force.  Shran shuddered, pulling himself out of the Force trance he had unintentionally fallen into.  The Force tugged at him as if it didn’t want to let him go.  Maybe it was the proximity to the lizards, but everything felt… _strange_.

 

Refocusing on the display his fingers hesitated, hovering over the controls.  _Wait a minute_ ….  Maybe there was a path between the two occupied cells within the Force bubble, something that would allow Winchester to get to the emergency stairs? 

 

His fingers flew over the display, punching in controls until he brought up the file he was looking for.  Ah, yes, there it was, on the emergency evacuation protocols map.  There were a series of narrow, heavily armored passageways concealed behind Force-resistant metal panels that linked each of the four cell blocks.  The panels only unlocked and permitted access if the evacuation alert was sounded—which only happened if there was an uncontrolled fire or other hazard on the Sith Containment level itself or a disaster on a massive scale, like planetary bombardment or geotectonic instability that necessitated an evacuation of the entire Temple complex.  But if the signal was given, armored doors would release and the cell blocks would be connected.

 

 _Do it_.  The Force seemed to prompt him.  It was the same urgency he’d felt about Mary Campbell’s lightsaber up in the Hall of Knighthood.  Only _stronger_ , more urgent.  This time, Shran did not resist.  If he could reprogram the system… _ah, got it_.  Shran smiled to himself.  He’d never been more grateful for the countless hours he’d spent programming, planning, and strategizing about detention security.  It was a part of his job he’d hated, but now it came in handy. 

 

By duplicating an image of the system and detention center, or at least the Sith Containment Cells—Shran didn’t want to interrupt any other prisoners who might presently be in one of the other detention levels—Shran could fool the monitoring programs into thinking nothing was happening.  Then, he could go in through one of the back doors built into the system and create a localized “disaster” that would send the signal to unlock just those doors on the passageway between Winchester’s cell block and Tiel’s.  Ironically, the back doors been placed there in case prisoners, or other hostile parties, ever overpowered the main system and the Jedi needed a way to regain control while tricking the prisoners into thinking they were still running the show.  Well, Shran was just going to have to subvert the security system’s purpose.

 

 _There, that should do it_ , Shran thought, suppressing any pride he might have felt at his handiwork.  After all, he was subverting the security of the Temple.  If he was _wrong_ , well… this would just be one more offense to add to the list.  On the display, 2-D representations of the hidden passage doors blinked and then popped open as the system omitted a faint chime.

 

Shran stepped away from the terminal and crossed the hallway he was in for another terminal, bringing up the detention center monitoring display.  The security system appeared normal, well, aside from the big red and blue blobs created by the ysalimiri.  More importantly, there was no indication the doors had opened. 

 

Turning back to the first console, Shran hastily backtracked out of the programming interface, covering his tracks as best he could.  When he was back to the regular system, he gave the security specifications another run-through.

 

Zachariah and Uriel had set up the system to send an alert if any cell doors were opened or if the emergency stairwell door opened.  Shran felt a flash of relief that he hadn’t entered his code or opened the door minutes before.  If he had, he would surely be either knee deep in confused Jedi or face-to-face with more of Uriel’s and Zachariah’s respectively bombastic and simpering monologues about how deluded and power hungry Shran was.  Thank the Force he’d come down here instead!

 

The good news was, since the main system—which was still running the alerts—was looking at an snapshot of the Sith Containment level and not actually receiving information in real time, Shran could now safely open the stairwell door—or any other door in the level—with out bringing Temple security down on them.

 

Satisfied, Shran quickly shut down both terminals, returning them to the same status they’d been in when he’d found them, before turning and darting back out of the level the way he’d came.  In his haste he’d failed to notice a blinking alert on the bottom of the security specs list.  If he’d read it, he would have realized a small patrol was set to report to the operations level in under two hours’ time before taking the lift up to the Sith Containment level and conducting a visual inspection of the prisoners.

 

Instead, Shran had bounded up the stone stairs, his security code already manually entered on the door’s touchpad before the door to the operations level had slid shut.  The ancient door hissed open, swinging inward, with the sickening squeal of metal on stone.  Shran squeezed inside, while the door was still opening, and hastily pushed it shut behind him.  From inside the Containment level, the door looked like all of the other regularly spaced metal panels that punctuated the reddish grey-brown cortosis-rich stone that made up most of the floor, walls, and ceiling this corridor and all of the other corridors on the level.  The seam around the door was too fine for most sentient species to see without magnification—hence the scraping—and for those who _might_ have detected it, the hall was dimly lit and the crags of the stone cast strong enough shadows, that the door was functionally invisible.  Yet Shran knew that tapping a particularly prominent outcrop of stone immediately to the left of the door would reveal the hidden keypad that allowed the door to open from the inside.

 

Shran turned, facing the hallway.  He was in the middle of a long corridor that stretched on to his left and right before both ends of the hall made sharp, ninety degree corners and continued on towards the north of the temple.  Shran knew from experience the level was constructed much like a maze.  The corridors were all of unequal length and within each cell block, there were many branches and turns that could render an prisoner quickly disoriented.  It also reduced the likelihood of any escaping Sith finding their way to the exit by the central core before being detected and intercepted. 

 

Luckily, Shran knew his way around.  He could also see the telltale pinkish-orange glow of an activated ray-shielded cell wall coming from three cells down to his right, on the same (south) side of the hall in which the hidden door was located.  That should be Cas Tiel’s cell.

 

He started towards it, moving silently, shuddering slightly as he took in his surroundings.  Jedi weren’t exactly _subtle_ when it came to their stereotypes and perceptions about the Dark Side.  Over the year, the colors red, purple, and almost anything black or dark had become overwhelmingly associated with the Dark Side, so much so that Jedi seldom crafted red- or purple-bladed lightsabers even before the Jedi started getting most of their crystals from Ilum, where nearly all the suitable stones were either green or blue.  That stereotype was reflected all around him in the construction of the level.  The Jedi who had designed it clearly believed that a space that housed Sith needed to reflect the evil and darkness it contained.  Perhaps they thought it would remind those Jedi guarding the Sith of the danger and proximity to evil…. 

 

Whatever the reason, while most of the temple was cast in soothing blues and greens, almost everything in the level was ominously red, dark, or rust-colored.  The small glowpanels in each cell gave off a blue-green light, but those only lighted when a cell was occupied, and their light wasn’t strong enough to reach the hall, not over the sickening pinky-orange glow of the ray-shielded walls.  The lighting for the hallway consisted of glowpanels set high in the ceiling.  The panels themselves where clear, giving off a white light, but as it turned out, the Force-resistant metals and lightsaber-defeating cortosis-rich stone from which the structure was constructed all gave off reddish, rust-colored tones in the light.  The effect was eerie, as the level was cast in a red glow filled with many dark, deep shadows.

 

As Shan approached Tiel’s cell, he realized Tiel wouldn’t be able to sense his approach because of the lizards, although he would have certainly heard the door open and close.  Out of consideration, Shan made sure to shuffle his steps a little, making enough noise for Tiel to hear his approach.  When he reached the cell, he turned and faced it.

 

Tiel was standing, rod straight, in the center of the cell, arms at his sides, glaring back at him.  Through the glow of the ray-shielded wall, Shran thought he saw _hope_ in Tiel’s blue eyes, but the man did not speak.

 

“Cas Tiel?” Shran asked, feeling his mouth catching around the unfamiliar sound and feel of the name he was attaching to a mostly familiar visage.

 

“Yes,” Tiel responded, stepping closer.

 

“You really are Cas Tiel, and not James Novak, aren’t you?” Shran asked, stepping closer himself.

 

“I am.  I would not lie about my identity,” Tiel answered, looking warily to either side, as if checking to make sure no one other than Shran stood in the hall.  His tone and words were oddly formal, Shran noted.  “I take it you believe me, _now_?”

 

“Yes,” Shran replied, nodding.

 

“And you are Master Gariq Shran, Jedi Shadow.”  It wasn’t a question.  At least Tiel didn’t sound angry, more… _relieved?_  

 

Shran really wished he had the Force to guide him.  “Yes, I’m Master Shran,” he acknowledged.

 

“Good,” Tiel said with a clipped nod.  He stepped closer still to the front wall, almost close enough to touch, and pulled himself to his full height.

 

Shran felt himself involuntarily gasp and take a small step backwards.  Tiel was _imposing_.  His stature, while more graceful, was actually more imposing than Shran’s.  And he held himself with a degree of command and poise that Shran knew Novak never possessed, despite his general self-assuredness.

 

“We need to talk,” Tiel continued, a hint of attitude in his voice that was strangely incongruous with his other behavior.  Winchester’s influence, perhaps?

 

“That we do,” Shran agreed, stepping forward again.

 

“No, you don’t understand.  There may not be time,” Tiel added frustratedly.  He shook his head.  Shran saw something flash in Tiel’s eyes—fear?  Anxiety?  Desperation, maybe?  “You can start by answering my question.  Where is Dean Winchester?”

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 15:**

(meanwhile) _Sith Containment Cells, Jedi Temple, Coruscant_ (present day)

 

The going was pretty slow, but Dean was making progress.

 

It had been embarrassingly difficult to separate the buckle straps from his boots.  On any other day he’d be singing praises to the company who so securely stitched the supple nerfhide together, but today he’d just wished the stitching _would_ give already!  His strength was already depleted when he started tugging at his boots, and he would have given almost anything for one of the tools on his utility belt. Persistence paid off, though, and after about ten minutes of struggling, he’d managed to tear the buckle and corresponding strap free his left boot. At least his boot would still stay on.  He’d hate to add ‘barefoot’ to the long list of conditions interfering with his escape attempt.

 

Once the strap and buckle were free, removing one of the wing-shaped faucet handles was laughably easy.  Dean wasn’t sure if the Force had anything to do with it, but he was grateful the Jedi had given their prisoners such primitive ‘fresher amenities.  Anything more sophisticated, and he probably wouldn’t be able to make it work for him.  As it was, he just used the buckle as a makeshift screwdriver, sticking the buckle’s prong into the recessed slot on the top of the handle and twisting until he’d worked free the large center screw that held the handle in place.  Once _that_ was freed, the handle lifted off effortlessly.

 

Dean quickly fashioned a strap wrench, using the boot’s strap to grip each toilet bolt and the faucet handle to provide leverage.  It was slow going, and the bolts were stubby and hard to grip, but slowly he worked free each of the three bolts in turn.  Dean would gladly have given up eating for a few weeks for the luxury of a hydrospanner right then.

 

By the time the third and final bolt had popped free in his hand, its satisfying weight accompanied by a resounding ‘thunk’ as the toilet slipped free from its moorings, Dean was sweaty, shaky, and nauseous.  He didn’t dare press his hand to his abdomen again, knowing he would find it near rigid. 

 

But now, he was running out of time.  The dimness and tightness of the cell—the isolation, not knowing where he was and not being able to find out—and the disconnection from the Force, from _Cas_ , was making him feel lost and playing into his claustrophobia fiercely.  If he looked at it, he’d swear the eerily glowing doorwall was pressing ever closer, closer, threatening to shock and crush him until he was nothing but a pile of dust and blood and bone charred into the rear wall of the cell. 

 

 _That won’t happen.  They don’t want to_ kill _you, the Jedi just don’t know any better_ , he told himself.  It wasn’t particularly comforting, but it was the truth.

 

Dean pried his eyes away from the glowing wall-that-wasn’t and squeezed them shut, breathing, just breathing, until he could exist in the black without his heart trying to flee through his ears.  Mustering all his strength, he pushed himself to his feet, leaned heavily on the toilet or support, took a deep breath, and _heaved_ , pulling the fixture over the drainpipe leading down into the floor beneath him, while ripping it free of the flimsy water supply line that diverted water from the sink to fill the bowl.  The broken line splashed and flailed, and Dean nearly fell on his face, catching himself on the edge of the sink, as he tripped over the toilet in his hate to reach the shutoff valve.

 

Thankfully, the water sloshed into the drain pipe and didn’t pool or spread across the floor where it could have made contact with the doorwall and electrocuted him.

 

Dean wasn’t _all_ lucky, though.  The combined exertion of his mad dash and the awful stench wafting up from the drain and too close to his nostrils, was too much.  He couldn’t keep the nausea at bay and heaved into the sink, vomiting a frighteningly large pool of stringy bile, and gloppy, clumpy tar-colored blood clots.  He froze, gripping the sink, his knuckles white, as he struggled to stop heaving, gasping with the pain each spasm brought.  He couldn’t give up; he _had_ to find the strength to go on.

 

Dean didn’t want to die bleeding out, slumped against a sink in a Jedi detention center.  He wouldn’t allow his death to condemn the universe.  He _couldn’t_ fail _Sam_.

 

It came to him suddenly, a vision of Sam standing before him with the burning, putrid yellow eyes of the Sith.  Dean didn’t need to touch the Force to know what was in store for his brother if he gave up now.  And that image proved motivation enough to keep Dean going.  Never.  He would _not_ let Sam fall!

 

Unsteadily, he straightened, reluctantly letting go of the sink.  Dean staggered back over to the toilet, trying hard not to breathe through his nose.  The drain pipe was only about a quarter of a meter across, so there was no way he could fit through it.  Not that he’d try that as a means of escape even if he _could_ fit (and stomach the smell).  Waste disposal systems were always fraught with twists and turns and unpleasant surprises.  One never knew when a perfectly large pipe would suddenly split into twenty or narrow to the point of being impassible, and one certainly never knew when to expect irradiation grids, turbines, or chemical treatment agents that all-too-frequently cropped up in pipes and sewers.

 

Once he was confident he could breathe without vomiting or passing out, Dean gripped the toilet tight and _pulled_.  It skipped across the floor, stuttering to a landing with a deafening grating sound that Dean feared could be heard throughout the temple.  He paused, waiting to see if anyone approached.  When no footsteps came tearing down the hall, he gave the toilet another tug, almost unbalancing himself in the process. 

 

As Dean teetered unsteadily, narrowly avoiding falling back onto the shielded doorwall, he surveyed his handiwork.  There was now enough room behind the toilet to push without having to straddle the hole the pipe made in the floor, and the toilet was roughly halfway to its destination.  Dean repositioned himself, crouching down with _his_ back to the taller rear portion of the toilet.  He leaned back and _pushed_ , using the toilet for support as he crab-walked backwards towards the far wall.  The toilet groaned as it slid, but it was a subtle sound, mournful almost, reminding Dean of his mood.  Just as long as it wasn’t clanging and screeching and alerting the temple to what he was doing, Dean was happy enough.

 

It took a little pivoting and shoving to situate the toilet dead-center underneath the glow panel, but _finally_ , a good hour after he’d started, he was balanced on tiptoe on the toilet seat, once again using his shoe buckle and the faucet handle to pry the glowpanel’s cover away from the wall. 

 

The bottom gave as he used the handle to hammer against the belt’s prong, wedging it into the seam little-by-little until the frame sprang free with a ‘pop.’  _Good_ , he observed, squeezing his fingers into the gap.  He tugged, pulled, and pushed, but couldn’t quite get the leverage to pull the cover free until he gingerly stepped up on the high, narrow back of the toilet which was now resting flush against the wall.  The added height allowed him to wiggle the shoe buckle in along the right side, hammering at it until that too popped free, pulling part of the top and left seams free as it went.  Now that the cover was hanging by only a corner, Dean _yanked_ , feeling a split-second of elation as the panel sprang free and tumbled away from the wall, but then he was falling, backwards, down, down, smacking his hip against he toilet so hard he heard a crack.  He landed, dazed, on his back on the floor.

 

“Sithspit!” he spat aloud.  Dean’s stomach heaved and rolled, cramping in agony at the strain.  He rolled onto his side, curling up in a fetal position, cringing at the pain the movement caused.  His stomach was so rigid he it hurt to bend.  His eyes danced over the switchbacks the glowwire made as it wended its way back and forth across a square box in inside the wall he had just uncovered.

 

Glowwire was low intensity, both in that it produced a very soft light and because it didn’t carry a very high voltage or amperage.  It was a type of flexible crystal optics that had been in service in the Republic for dozens of generations, at least, and was very predicable and consistently applied.  The glowing, charge-carrying crystal was covered with a thin layer of transpariplast insulation, just enough to let workers handle and shape it while charged without getting more than a slight _buzz_ from the wire, while also not reducing its glow. 

 

Better yet, glow wire carried the same charge throughout and didn’t need to be wired back into a circuit, so designers usually rested the end of the glowwire in an insulated receptacle within the glowpanel, or occasionally ran it through the wall to the next panel.  The latter construction method was disfavored, because if the glowwire shorted, burned out, or was damaged, one would have to replace the wire from the point of the fault on, making what should be a minor repair potentially very costly. 

 

From his vantage point on the floor, Dean could just make out a black rubber cup in the bottom left corner of the box.  _Definitely a solo unit_ , he observed.  Which was good.  Now, if only he could pull the glowwire from its source in the wall, run it across the cramped cell, and press the un-insulated, charge-carrying end into the doorwall.  Just touching the charged tube to any part of the strange, glowing, semi-transparent surface might be enough to short out the forcefield, but if he could get it all the way over to the access hatch, assuming the forcefield, but not the glowwire shorted after the contact, he might be able to weave the glowwire into the doorwall’s circuitry, which would maybe yield enough power to let Dean override the locking mechanism _if_ he could figure out how the mechanism worked.

 

It was a lot of ifs, buts, and maybes, but Dean was an excellent slicer and an even better engineer.  And he was those things whether he was in touch with the Force or not.  That was the advantage the Jedi might not see coming.  But it would all be for naught if he couldn’t even get the glowwire in contact with the door. __

He ran the math in his head, counting the number of times the glowwire traversed the box, on its trip from the point where the wire exited the wall conduit at the top to the receptacle cap at the bottom and figuring in the width of the box and the added vertical distance, he estimated there were about five-and-a-half meters of glowwire in the box.  Running through the geometry, it was roughly five-and-a-half meters from the box to the hatch on the doorwall taking the shortest possible route. 

 

So, his plan _could_ work.  That was good to know.  He’d hate to be wasting all that energy for nothing; the frustration alone would have killed him. 

 

Dean rolled up onto his elbows, moving gingerly.  The glowwire was held in by tiny transpariplast clips as it snaked its way back and forth within the box.  He’d need to unwind the full box’s worth and hopefully find a little slack in the line so he had a margin of error.

 

As Dean staggered to his feet and climbed back onto the toilet, once again perching precariously on its narrow back, he imagined going through all this just to have the glowwire not reach.  He snorted.  _That would certainly be Winchester luck._   He pushed back the pang of grief that boiled up every time he thought of the _Winchesters_ … a dying breed.  He willed the conflicted emotions that accompanied memories of his father, the aching loss that cut through him with thoughts of his brother and pushed on.  The truth was, even if there was no chance of him getting out of his cell (which face it, even if he _did_ get out, he was still screwed), even if he knew that this plan, effort, escape attempt, _whatever it was_ , was guaranteed to fail, he’d still do it.  It wasn’t so much about coming out victorious, but about not sitting idly by and waiting for death.  Dad had trained him and trained him well—stay in motion, keep planning, keep doing… it might not work out, but sometimes the path created more options, more ideas, and one of them might just save his skin.

 

 _Would Dad approve?_ he wondered as he began popping the glowwire free of the retainer clips, a faint buzzing sensation traveling through his hands and up his arms.  “Approve of what?” he asked aloud. 

 

 _Of this—me with a guy, of me as a Jedi, no, not a Jedi, a… a Force-user… would he want me hunting this way?  What would he think if he knew I was stuck in a Jedi holding cell?_ The voice in the back of his mind answered. 

 

Dean smirked, “He might not be so comfortable with the Force stuff, but he wouldn’t mind Cas, and he’d… probably… congratulate me for pissing… off… the Council… enough to wind up in _here!_ ”  His words were punctuated by grunts as he strained to pull the glowwire free, nearly toppling himself again when he gave a particularly hard _yank_. 

 

And yet, saying the words aloud made his situation seem more _real_ , cutting through the fog he’d been in since he’d woken up on the floor of the cell.  “And he’d sure as hell want me to do whatever I could to save Sammy!” Dean concluded, thinking back to the message Miss’Ouri had passed on from his father. 

 

Giving the glowwire and even more enthusiastic tug, the flexible cording pulled free from two rows of clips at once, and he even managed to keep his footing.

 

Pleased, Dean gave two more quick tugs, drawing on the reserves of energy he’d tapped into when he thought of Dad.  The last three switch-backs of glowwire pulled free of the box, dropping towards the floor in a lazy loop.  Dean reached up, standing on tiptoe once again, and pulled gently on the wire where it emerged from conduit at the top of the box.  To his relief, it had a little give, and he was able to pull another half-meter or so in slack before it finally went taut.  The extra length was good, because he’d forgotten to figure in the height of the box when he’d made his estimations.

 

Panting with exertion, Dean stepped gingerly from the toilet back to the seat and then to the floor.  His strength was waning again, and he nearly fell when his knees gave way.  Dean caught himself on the toilet seat with his right hand, the sweaty fingers of his left hand gripping the glowwire tightly.  He tried to ground himself in the warm, buzzing sensation the thinly insulated cords sent up his arm, wishing he could draw energy from it.  But without the Force, the glowwire was incompatible—capable of shocking, burning, and injuring him, but not a source of power he could use to _heal_.

 

Once he was standing on the cell floor with the glowwire gripped securely in his hands, Dean stretched it carefully diagonally across the room, bending down as he approached the portion of the doorwall where he’d seen the vague outline of the access hatch.  He dropped to his knees stiffly, avoiding bending at the waist as much as possible.  _Ok then._   The glowwire reached! Hovering about three centimeters from the hatch he still had at least a quarter meter of glowwire in his hands, and it wasn’t quite pulled taut.

 

 _How do I do this without knocking myself out again?_ he wondered.

 

Dean looked around at the all-too-familiar contents of the cell.  There was nothing that would really insulate him from the electrical surge.  The best he could do was to tear off strips of his clothes. Dean was very reluctant to do so, considering how cold he already was, low on blood and without any sort of robe or jacket, with only his tunic and pants separating him from the cold, stone floor.  Well, he’d just have to get a little colder.  Dean let out a long, low sigh as he pulled at the bottom of his tunic, managing to rip off a broad band of the fabric that hung around his narrow hips.

 

He folded the cloth again and again until he had formed a pad about ten centimeters square and almost a dozen layers thick that fit neatly between the palm of his left hand and the glowwire. He fiddled with the wire, holding it securely in his left hand while tugging gently with his right, coaxing the insulation to slip back from the live end, until about five centimeters of the electrified crystal were exposed.  Then, gingerly, he took hold of the glowwire with his left hand, folded fabric pad wrapped around the bunched-up insulation.

 

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered to the empty room, hoping that without the Force, the forcefield wouldn’t pack such a punch.  Reaching out with his right hand to balance himself against the wall as he lowered himself towards the floor, he tentatively jabbed the exposed end of the glowwire into the glowing, pinkish forcefield, squeezing his eyes shut just before the moment of contact.

 

The result was instantaneous.  A loud, sparking crack followed by a quieter sizzles, and a final _bang_ rang through the cell. The shock ran through the fabric pad into his hand, and up into his body knocking Dean off his feet.  He fell backwards, dazed, and narrowly avoided landing in the drain pipe or clipping his head on the sink.  _Ow; that hurt!_ Instead, he’d been thrown against the side wall of the cell and landed on his right elbow, slumped down where wall met floor, his head connecting with a crack.  He could feel the bruises forming in his arm and on his ribs from the impact.  The nausea was back with a vengeance.  Between the blood loss, the electric shock, and now the bump on his head Dean was woozy and dizzy, his stomach seeming to loop and slosh around inside his body. 

 

Dean panted, gritting his teeth together, letting the pain flow out of him as best he could.  It wasn’t the same without the Force, but the meditation techniques that Miss’Ouri had made sure he’d mastered still helped.  Confident that he wouldn’t puke, Dean opened his eyes a crack, taking in the state of the room around him.

 

It was dimmer; actually, make that almost dark.  The doorwall was dark.  Still semi-transparent, but it no longer glowed, instead it just showed a very hazy-dim image of the stark, barren hall outside his cell.  Since he’d disassembled the glow panel, there was no longer a cool, green glow coming from high up on the wall, but the room wasn’t pitch black.  The glowwire was still functioning.  It traced fine, sea-colored line of illumination across the room, casting everything in shadow. 

 

Next, Dean assessed himself, moving slowly, flexing toes and ankles, bending his knees, and cautiously pushing off the wall.  Blood was dripping down his forehead.  His right hand shot up to his head, feeling for the source, another wave of nausea tearing through him with the sudden movement.  _Phew_ , Dean sighed in relief as his fingers brushed against a tacky patch of hair on the right side of his head.  It was just a scratch, bloody, but not serious.  Only he couldn’t really afford to lose any more blood, so that wasn’t good.  He felt flaky bits fall to the ground.  It had _rock_? stuck in it too.  He looked at the wall.  _Ahh_ , cortosis ore was notoriously brittle.  As he’d suspected, the cold, stone bricks lining the cell walls were made of cortosis ore, and they’d actually chipped and flaked where he’d hit the wall, and little flecks now littered the floor of the cell, a few bigger chunks had actually crumbled out of one of the bricks and fallen near his knees.

 

As he brushed the rubble off his pants, he noticed his left hand was singed, much of the cloth burned away, with little red and white burns sprinkled across his palm.  It wasn’t too bad, he observed, testing the flex of his flesh with a hesitant fist.  It _stung_ , and there were bits of his tunic charred into his skin, and a few charred bits of skin as well, but if he could actually get someplace he could _heal_ safely, if he could find _Cas_ , it would be very easy to repair.

 

He could see more of the tunic melted into the bubbled insulation near the exposed end of the glowwire.  Dean’s eyes darted to the right.  The tip of the glow wire was dark, the aqua blue crystal had clouded to a hazy grey that meant it was no longer conducting electricity, but that was only the last two centimeters or so.  There was still a stretch of brilliant aqua crystal glowing bright that was stripped of its insulation and exposed to the air!  Now if only he could get that access panel off.

 

Dean moved more slowly now, even though his goal was in sight, he’d burned through his reserves of strength and simply _couldn’t_ work any faster.  He crawled across the floor to the sink where he’d discarded his makeshift strap wrench.  The wing-shaped faucet handle was pretty thin, and the prong of his belt buckle was even thinner.  Both were perfect for prying off an access panel.  He crawled back towards the now-harmless doorwall, his burned left hand clutched close to his bruised ribs and painfully rigid stomach.

 

 _Harmless_ , he snorted at the thought.  With the amount of _noise_ it had made and the power surge he’d felt, he’d probably alerted the entire temple to his escape attempt.  He shook his head, regretting it when the new bruise he’d acquired throbbed insistently.  If they came running, maybe they’d realize he was dying, and send one of their healers to help.  Not that they’d be fast enough, unless they were poised and ready to heal him the moment he moved outside the ysalimiri’s force bubble.

 

He was a little disappointed that the door hadn’t opened when the power was cut.  He hadn’t really expected it, but he’d been hoping…  Instead, he got to work prying the panel off of the door wall.  It was easy, springing free without a sound, and falling with a tiny ‘plop’ into his waiting hands.  Dean shimmied onto the floor, trying not to put any pressure on his abdomen.  The circuits were pretty complex, but sure enough, he recognized a linked switch that looked shockingly similar to the manual override/emergency door release circuitry on the _Dream’s_ doors.

 

Fingers darting out without thinking, he batted quickly at the wires inside the doorwall.  _Dead_.  Thankfully, just like he’d expected.  With shaking hands, he slowly, painstakingly worked free what should be the power supply for the switch. 

 

The manual door release—if that’s what it was—was a tiny, round, bronze-colored flap with a spring behind it that appeared to be made of Kelsh metal.  If he was careful, he could just manage to depress it without touching any of the other circuits. 

 

Holding the glowwire by the insulated part between the thumb and forefinger of his singed left hand, and posing his pinky over the button, Dean held his breath.  In his right hand, he held the power-supply wire, its exposed end bent into a hook shape and hooked it gently to the exposed, still-glowing part of the glowwire. 

 

The doorwall, which had seemed completely powered down only moments before, sprang to life.  A white border appeared in the center like a tall pillar running down the see-through wall, which then morphed into the outline of a door, and then seemed to slide, disappearing into an unseen recess in the rest of the door wall.

 

Carefully, Dean set down the glowwire and power-supply combination, hoping it didn’t unhook itself.  He was _free_!  Or at least the door was open.  Whether or not he’d succeed in exiting the Temple alive, remained to be seen.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 16:**

(meanwhile)

Shran was a little taken aback by the question.  He’d been expecting Tiel to ask why Shran was there, whether Zachariah and Uriel had changed their minds about detaining Tiel and Winchester, maybe even something about the lizards, but not … not such open concern and devotion to Winchester—especially since Shran had gotten the impression that Winchester was mostly a loner, not communicating or associating with anyone besides his family, his droid, and a handful of acquaintances he held at arm’s length.

 

“He’s in another cell,” Shran started.  “It’s in another cell block, but on the same level.”  Shran paused, considering if he should say more.  “This is the Sith Containment level—”

 

“I know what this place _is_ ,” Tiel said, voice tight with annoyance.  Shran watched as Tiel’s expression changed completely, his face softening from the glare he shot at Tiel to something more _reverent_ , as he looked at his surroundings.  “I designed it,” Tiel added, almost absently, focusing on the glowing, semitransparent wall in front of him, his hand running forward as if to press against the ray-shield.

 

“Oh,” Shran remarked, sounding as stupid as he felt.  It hadn’t occurred to him to check for Tiel’s name in the archives.

 

“The ysalimiri.  Is Dean inside their zone of influence?” Tiel asked urgently.

 

“Yes—”

 

“Then there is no time,” Tiel interrupted.  “The survival of every life in the universe, the survival of the very Force itself is at stake.  You must take me to Dean now; show us how to get out of the bubble.”  The alarm and conviction in Tiel’s voice shook Shran to his core.

 

“Wait; is this something to do with the lizards?  Because I noticed the Force felt— _odd_ —in the rest of the Temple, and I warned Master Zachariah about using them without further testing, and—”

 

“Master Zachariah is a fool, but this is not the lizards’ doing.  As long as Dean Winchester is cut off from the Force, the _Force_ is tearing itself apart.  If you have already felt the effects, we have even less time than I had feared.”  As Tiel spoke, his icy blue eyes bore into Shran’s, sending a shudder up Shran’s spine.

 

“I—I don’t understand… are you saying Winchester, Dean, is doing this?”  Shran was pretty sure that wasn’t what Tiel had meant, but he was reluctant to voice the conclusion that had been brewing in the back of his mind at least since he had encountered young Michael in the rooftop gardens earlier.

 

“You know, Master Shran,” Tiel spoke, his voice razor thin, “of the Lost Prophecy, the _True_ Lost Prophecy—the story of the Healer and his guide—the tale buried in the ruins of the Old Library on Ossus.  The words your Jedi council refuses to hear, not the story of the Sith lord and the Council’s own bad deeds they try to keep hidden from others.”  He blinked, breaking the tension building in the room.

 

Shran let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

 

“This is not _Dean’s_ doing,” Tiel said, his voice much softer, _haunted_.  He looked down, “The Jedi believe the Light Side is good, pure, while the Dark Side is evil, destructive.  What they forget is that the Force,” Tiel looked up again, “is _one_.”  He brought his hands together, palms pressed firmly, fingers extended straight in front of him.  “The Jedi keep trying to pull the Force to the Light, stretching it, tearing it, leaving behind the Dark.”  He pulled his left hand away from his right, stretching his hands farther and farther apart as he spoke.  “But what is light without dark?  Day without night?  Heat without cold?” he slowed, “Life without death?”

 

Shran realized awkwardly that Tiel expected a response.  He felt so unfamiliarly wrong-footed, immersed in a moment; even without the aid of the Force, he could feel the weight on his shoulders, the balance of the Universe shifting, as time slipped away like sand under his feet sliding away with the tide.  And here he was, stumbling and fumbling.  “It’s, uh…” he stammered, “unbalanced, incomplete.”

 

Tiel nodded, seeming pleased with what he’d heard.  “ _Life_ , depends on both extremes and everything in between.  So when the Jedi prod and pull and ignore the Dark, the _Force_ suffers.  And with it, so does life.”

 

It was Shran’s turn to nod.  “But,” he found himself voicing the question before his mind realized it had formed, “the Jedi have achieved peace for so long, and the Dark Side—it always brings such destruction.”  He could hear the uncertainty in his voice echoing around the empty, cavernous hallway of the detention center.

 

“It is not the Force that causes the destruction, but the choices of those who seek to control it,” Tiel explained looking again at his hands.  “When the Light Side is pulled, it is flexible.  Over time, the tension in the Force builds and builds, because the Jedi and others who draw exclusively on the Light push gradually.”  His left hand continued moving outward, slowly at first, then speeding up. “But the further they go towards the extreme, the more they lose perspective.  So, like an excited child rolling a snowball up a hill, they start to run and skip as they near the top, excited by how close they are, not noticing the precariousness of their position until,” Tiel’s left arm was now fully extended outwards from his side, his hand bent inward at the wrist, “they almost reach the top and suddenly, their hold breaks, and the snowball tumbles from their grasp, rolling at increasing speed down the hill.”

 

Shran watched as Tiel brought his hand slamming inwards with great alacrity.  As it smacked into the palm of Tiel’s right hand, Shran spoke, understanding dawning on him, “But it doesn’t stop where it started.  It doesn’t _balance_ —there’s so much potential energy built up when it starts to fall, it just keeps on going.”  He watched Tiel’s right hand quickly swing out to the side.

 

“Those devoted only to the Dark Side are always building, preparing, ready to seize the moment.  When the light loses control, the Dark’s ascent to power is always quick.”

 

Shran nodded again, still confused.  _He said the Force was tearing apart; that there was no time…_   “What does this have to do—” Shran started.

 

Tiel’s piercing stare was back, once again freezing Shran in place.  “Because it is imperative that you understand.  We are not,” Tiel paused as if searching for a term or phrase, “playing games.  If you help us, they—the Jedi, your _Order_ will hunt you and persecute you—but you will make it possible to save the universe, the very Force itself.”

 

“But how, why?”  Shran felt like the deep, dark tunnel he’d been climbing down ever since the fire at the _other_ Winchester’s apartment had just fallen out beneath him, sending him tumbling in free fall.

 

“This time, the Dark Side power that has risen has been lying in wait for five thousand years, biding its time.  Darth Azazel hid in the Force until the Dark Side whispered to him that the time was right.” Tiel started pacing back and forth along the length of the cell.  His steps were slow, but sure, matching the pace and flow of his words.  All the while, he kept glancing at Shran, as if checking to make sure he had the Jedi’s attention.  “He set events in motion to ensure the Chosen One would be born and then, Azazel bound the chosen one to him.  With every passing moment their destinies dance closer to each other, and if they join, willingly, Azazel will have the power to achieve his goal-permanently shifting the balance of the Force to the Dark Side.  If he does that,” Tiel stopped pacing directly in font of Shran and leaned forward again, his nose millimeters from the cell wall, the pink-orange glow of the ray-shield distorting his features, “the Force will tear apart.” Tiel let his hands fly out to the sides in demonstration.

 

“But why?” Shran protested, “Why would he want to do something that will destroy him too?  If he wants power, then surely, he must want something to… to rule?”  It was a lesson Shran had learned long ago, even the most senseless, hateful villain had his or her own goals, own sense of logic.  Virtually no sentient being acted ‘just because’ or purely out of spite.  Yet, Darth Azazel… Shran still couldn’t make out the Sith Lord’s motives, or logic, everything obscured behind layers of time, secrecy, and misunderstanding.

 

“He doesn’t know,” Tiel answered, the words seeming to echo throughout the detention center.  “Just like the Jedi High Council doesn’t know that if they achieved purity in the Light Side, the Force would similarly self destruct.  Even now, the Force is tearing apart.  That is what you felt outside this bubble.  But—”  Tiel held up the pointer finger of his right hand to emphasize his point.  “ _Dean_ can stop it.  He has been _Healing_ the Force since Lord Azazel recalled his lieutenants from their Thought Bomb and set the end stage of his plan in motion.  He still has a chance to heal the Force now, if we move quickly.”  Tiel looked up at Shan expectantly, almost eagerly.

 

It was too much.  The obedient part of Shran, the voice that strained against his defiance of Zachariah and Uriel, the part that hesitated and balked at every choice he made that took him farther from the protocol and training of the Order surged up, vying for control.  Maybe there was something to Tiel’s words, but even if Shran believed the Force was in danger, there was no reason he needed to free Cas Tiel. Or Winchester. 

 

He stepped back, away from the cell wall, turning slightly, his eyes followed the length of the hallway, taking in where he was, what he was doing. “If that’s what is happening, I will move the lizards closest to Winchester, get him outside the bubble.  Then he can touch the Force, _heal_ ,” his voice hitched on the word, “whatever’s happening to it.”  He glanced over his shoulder at Tiel, not really seeing him. “I’ll even take the heat for this from the Council, explain to them what you told me.  Maybe they’ll believe me if the Force starts—feeling better.”  He chuckled at the ridiculousness of his words as he started to move further away, heading back the way he had come.

 

“If you do that, Winchester will die, and with him, so will any chance of our survival.”  There was no anger in Tiel’s words, just certainty, resignation, sorrow.

 

Shran spun around, facing Tiel.  From this angle, the vibrating glow of the ray shield looked like a shimmering aura around the young man with his ancient soul.

 

“Dean is a conduit for the Force.  That’s what being the Healer _is_.  He doesn’t call the Force to him, draw Force from the world around him like you or I; the _Force_ seeks out Dean, permeates every cell in his body with greater saturation than you would believe possible.  It flows through him naturally, like a great river.”

 

Shran sucked in an audible gasp, the image of a great, deep, indigo river of Force.  He had seen it on Manaan and again on Ossus and thinking far back… there had been an _echo_ of it even at the site of the fire, not as strong, nor robust, but there.  That’s what he was seeing.  Not a Force _signature_ of someone using or wielding the Force, but the Force itself, its full spectrum of Light, Dark, and everything in between flowing through _Dean_ , the Healer.  He wasn’t just a healer of bodies or souls, but of the Force itself.

 

“And as it flows into him, it is tearing itself apart,” Tiel continued, recognition of Shran’s reaction flickering in his eyes, “and so it tears at Dean, injuring him, causing him great pain.  Everything our actions do to the Force, Dean _feels_.”

 

Shran blanched at the idea, back stiffening in reaction.  He couldn’t imagine… it was simply beyond his comprehension what that would even feel like, how someone could cope, but yet that was what—who—Dean Winchester was, and Shran felt his gratitude and respect for the youth grow exponentially. 

 

“But Dean can heal the Force, knit the fibers and tendrils back together,” Tiel interwove his fingers.  “He heals the Force first, then others who are injured, and himself last.  So, when he was cut off from the Force…” Tiel hung his head.

 

“He was wounded, and we cut off his ability to heal _himself_ when we cut him off from the Force… or rather cut off the Force from _him_ ,” Shran finished, understanding crystallizing at last. 

 

Tiel nodded solemnly.  “Dean’s injuries will be getting worse as they go untreated, and the Force is fragmenting more and more the longer they are separated.  If he comes back in contact with the Force, the onslaught might drain him, kill him, before he can heal the Force.  And even if he does…”

 

 _He might not be strong enough or live long enough to heal himself._   Shran concluded, as his eyes met Tiel’s in acknowledgment.  Shran moved without further thought, stepping up to the cell as his fingers instinctively sought out the piece of false stone that covered the key pad.  “What do we do?” he asked Tiel as he punched in the security override codes in sequence.  First the orange glow of the ray shield cut out.  Then the remaining faint hum and solid form and cloudiness of the wall transformed.  The wall cleared to pure transparency and the outline of a door appeared in it.  One more code, and the door slid back, and Shran was face to face with Tiel, the man he had hunted as an enemy for so many months, standing before him as an ally.

 

As the two men regarded each other with newfound understanding and respect, behind them, from somewhere far deeper in the detention center echoed a loud ‘bang.’  The lights all around them flickered and cut out momentarily before glowing back to life.

 

“That’s Dean,” Tiel exclaimed, body coming to life with a grace and fluidity James Novak had never possessed.  “We must go to him,” he spoke as he glided past Shran, stepping to the right of him and heading down the hallway.  “Which cell block is he in?” Tiel asked matter-of-factly, spinning on the spot to face Shran.

 

Shran blinked, dumbfounded by the sudden turn of events.  “How… that’s impossible, even if he could touch the Force right now, there should be no way…”

 

“Dean is a trained Hunter,” Tiel explained, “he does not need the Force to fight or protect himself or those he cares for.”

 

 _Hunters_ , Shran knew the term, knew people like Dean’s father used it to refer to themselves, but honestly Shran still thought of the ill-defined group as misguided vigilantes who didn’t know anything the Jedi didn’t.  In fact, once he’d learned John Winchester was Force sensitive, he’d assumed that was how the man had eluded him for so long.  Shran’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Tiel rolled his eyes and responded.

 

“John Winchester, Dean’s father, was a Hunter.  He started out in the Jedi support corps, but he didn’t take to the Jedi tradition of tearing kids away from their families.  After his wife was killed by Darth Azazel, he started hunting the Dark Side.  Learned from the best and passed that knowledge on to Dean.”  Tiel sighed, “Most Hunters can’t touch the Force, so they develop other skills, hone their senses, employ their ingenuity.”

 

Shran blinked.  How had he missed that piece of information?  _Winchester_ _’s mother was killed by Darth Azazel too?_   He’d have to follow up on it later, after, maybe when Winchester was saved and the Force was healed, and they had… escaped, because now there was no time.  He was still processing the information when Tiel continued.

 

“Dean is resourceful.  He’s a fierce fighter, and he cares far more about saving others than saving himself.”  Tiel’s voice warmed with pride and _adoration?_ as he spoke, the stony seriousness of his visage breaking into a genuine smile for the first time that Shran had seen.  It was fleeting though.  Tiel beckoned Shran with a wave of his arm.  “Come on.  Dean’s no doubt figured out how to use the pristine and innocuous surroundings of his cell to let himself out.  Something no Jedi or Sith would ever have thought of.”

 

Shran still hadn’t moved.  The tables kept turning too quickly for him to keep up.  It reminded him of the strategy challenges Master Yoda put the younglings through.  Shran had passed them successfully , but he’d never reacted as quickly as he would have liked, always hanging back and analyzing the situation from one more perspective before forging ahead.  It was a quality that served him well in his work as a Jedi Shadow, often giving him the extra edge to solve a crime or catch a Dark Side user, but there were some situations, like _now_ , where his hesitation was a hindrance.

 

“Dean is _dying_ ,” Tiel gritted out.  “If we don’t get to him soon, it may be too late, for all of us.”

 

“He’s— he’s in the Northwest cell block,” Shran said at last, pushing through the fog in his mind, giving in to the urgency of the moment, and pushing his reservations aside.

 

Tiel nodded and started back down the hallway to their right, the direction leading towards the level’s central core.

 

“The core’s outside the ysalimiri’s bubble,” Shran stammered hastily.

 

Tiel stopped, and turned back towards Shran, waiting expectantly.

 

“I’ve imaged the security system so the Council won’t see our movements or detect any cell doors opening.”  He cocked his head to the side, “They won’t even see Winchester’s explosion.  But if we step outside the bubble—”

 

“They will sense us in the Force,” Tiel nodded in agreement.  “We can use the emergency corridors.”  He started moving again, sliding past Shran in the hallway, leaving the Jedi Master scrambling to catch up.

 

“I’ve already set off a false emergency alarm to trigger the doors opening,” Shran said as he hurried after Tiel.  “They should be unlocked.”

 

“Good.  It appears the design of this level has changed very little over the years,” he said not bothering to look over his shoulder as he continued towards the far end of the hall.

 

Around the corner to the right and then down the first hallway on the left they should find the brownish-red metal door of the narrow emergency corridor now open.  “Hurry, we can devise a strategy as we walk.”  Without further hesitation Tiel quickened his step, his long beige robe swirling around his ankles as he walked. 

 

And Shran once again found himself scurrying to catch up.

 **~~~**

 **~~~**

 **Chapter 17:**

(meanwhile)

 

Now that he was out of the cell, Dean found himself at a loss.  It didn’t help that his new injuries were making it harder and harder to think, breath, move.  The little voice in the back of Dean’s mind that always stayed detached and aware told him he was going into shock, and he understood… but there wasn’t anything he could do.  He just wanted Cas. 

 

Somehow he’d managed to stagger outside the cell.  He was in a long corridor with a high, arched ceiling that appeared to have small, rectangular glow panels running along its apex.  The walls and floor—and ceiling, from what little he could make out—were made of the same rough-hewn stone as the cell.  In between every few cells there were floor-to-ceiling panels of some sort of burnished metal Dean didn’t recognize.  If he had to guess, he’d bet it was something specially designed to resist the Force, but his mind wasn’t really up to guessing.  It was only his hard-drilled Hunter’s training that had him taking in all the details, cataloguing everything around him.  But none of that even _mattered_ since he was still within the ysalimiri’s influence, still bleeding out, and still _alone_. 

 

Dean felt something wet dripping, stinging the singed skin on his right arm.  He looked down at his hand, woozy from the movement and immediately regretting the sight of fabric charred into his skin, and blinked.  More water.  It _stung_.  _Oooooh_ , it was tears.  He was crying.  Under different circumstances Dean might be embarrassed, but right now he just wanted Cas.  He _missed_ Cas.  He wanted to hear his voice, feel him… even if it was the last thing he did.  Dean didn’t want to die alone.

 

He realized that his concentration was slipping, much like he was slipping as he tried to stand.  He’d gotten this far.  He couldn’t just give up now.  (Although, secretly, Dean was starting to admit that giving up might not be much of a choice soon.)  He gave into the slipping, and let himself fall, leaning against the strange wall.  Every movement seemed to steal his breath. His skin felt like ice. The wall behind him and floor beneath him felt as cold as the bitter plains of Hoth.  And he missed _Cas_.

 

He’d half hoped the Jedi would notice his little prison break and come running.  Maybe then they’d take a look at him and realize something was wrong—no definitely; Dean was pretty sure he must look dead.  He _felt_ dead, lost, insubstantial... 

 

Concentration snapped back into focus like a rubber band.  If they’d _listen_ to him, maybe he could even get a Jedi healer or two to take him outside the Force-free bubble and heal him while he tried to deal with the Force.  He had no idea if it would work, or if maybe he was already beyond saving, but it was a hope.  His mind drifted, the annoying voice reminding him that the Force echo of an unfamiliar Jedi could hurt him, and that might not be an option.  He let his mind drift again; felt the shaking in his body increase.

 

But he’d been out of the cell for a good five minutes now, slumped against the floor, outside his former prison, trying to gather his strength, and still no one had come to check on him.  Dean wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.  Would Cas even know something had happened?  Was Cas even alive?  He moved his left hand to his face, the fingers wracked with tremors, and tried to wipe his tears away.  Every time he thought of Cas he just cried harder. 

 

It was even darker out here.  At first, Dean had worried that maybe he was fading faster than he’d realized, vision blurring, tunneling, and going dark around the edges.  And okay, there was some of that.  He really had to work to focus, to _see_.  But then he realized that aside from the glow panels in the ceiling high above, and the still-glowing strand of glowwire in the cell, there was no other source of illumination.  The doorwalls on the faces of the other cells were all _transparent_ ; their clearly visible doors slid open, no pink glow anywhere in sight.  None of the cells’ glow panels were operating either, which meant, it was _dark_ and if Dean needed to hotwire something else, he was as good as bantha fodder. 

 

 _Huh_ , Dean thought, a little more clearly as he tried to breath past the ache of bruises and the deeper throb of internal burns caused by the surge of electricity arcing though his soft tissue.  He turned, stiffly, looking over his shoulder at the still semi-transparent doorwall of his former prison, _I musta fried that piece of Sithspit real good for it to still be cloudy_ , he snorted with a little shake of his head, which he instantly regretted.  The hall was doing loop-the-loops around him, and now an out-of-tune Tatooine cantina band had joined the herd of stampeding Banthas that were running around in his head.

 

In short, the situation wasn’t looking good, especially when he factored in the throbbing, stinging ache of his burned hand and blurriness in his vision signifying he was undoubtedly once again badly concussed.  But Dean was struggling with all his will to avoid giving in to despair.  He’d come too far.  He really had.  He needed to get to Cas.  But he was so cold… so, so cold…

 

Instead of wallowing, he prodded himself to focus, pulling up what little knowledge he had of the Jedi Temple.  When he had a goal, he could put all his energy toward it, and it was easier to ignore the pain, easier to stay with himself, not get lost.  He’d never had much interest in the mammoth building growing up. It had been a symbol of everything wrong with the Jedi, the _Order_ —a Temple full of tiny children and youths all taken and kept away from their families… _their homes_. 

 

Ever since _Manaan_ , okay, a little before; ever since he figured out Sam—he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing at the thought of his brother, tears falling from his eyes again—was the Chosen One, he’d been spending more time researching the Jedi, and their Temple.  He knew enough to be sure the detention center wasn’t on any of the maps accessible to the public.  However, between his recollection of where he’d been led and his memory of the places where there were unmarked floors or sections on the public schematics, Dean was pretty sure he was about half-way up the Northwest quadrant of the Temple—the same part of the Temple where the little kids studied and slept and where Jedi went to meditate.

 

When he felt pretty confident no one was coming for him— _maybe Cas heard and he’ll try to come_ —Dean slowly, arduously pushed himself to his feet, bracing his back against the wall behind him as he levered himself up on his good right elbow and planted his feet firmly under himself, his injured left arm and burned hand, still tucked close to his body, protecting his ribs and now-rigid abdomen.  There was a moment as he transferred his weight where he was pretty sure he was either going to black out from the burning, stabbing, pain in his gut or do a header onto the hard, stone floor thanks to the wave of dizziness that swelled with the slightest motion; but he froze, sucked in a shallow, careful breath, and resumed moving more slowly, successfully keeping the darkness at bay.

 

Giving one more, slow, careful assessment of his surroundings, Dean started off down the hallway heading towards his left.  It was slow going.  He was shaking so hard he had trouble staying on his feet.  His right arm was stretched across his body, pressing against the wall, fingers guiding him along as he staggered.  He could have crossed to the other side, leaned on his good arm with less trouble, but it was hard enough crossing the gaps in the wall formed by open doors… he didn’t want to try crossing the hall itself.

 

He could see the hall his cell was in made a T-junction with another corridor about fifteen meters ahead, so it seemed like as logical a direction to turn as any.  If he got really lucky maybe he’d find Cas—or a Bacta tank—although, he wouldn’t be surprised if the Jedi had opted to detain him and Cas separately lest they break out and try to find each other… like Dean was trying to do now.  And as for the Bacta, well, most Jedi could heal themselves pretty well with the Force, and the Temple had its own _army_ of trained healers it was likely the Temple’s infirmary had a Bacta tank or two or at least some well-stocked medkits in case of an emergency where the healers weren’t around or someone’s wounds were too severe to heal with the Force alone, or maybe even if someone needed healing faster than a self-induced healing trance could provide.  The only problem was Dean didn’t have a clue how to get from wherever he was to the infirmary, and even if he did, he almost certainly couldn’t get there without stepping outside the ysalimiri bubble, and if he did that without someone or something else standing by to heal him, he _would_ die. 

 

Unless…

 

Dean had reached the T-junction.  There wasn’t much to see, just more red-brown metal, more rough-hewn stone, and an identical assortment of cells (all with open doors and transparent, deactivated, doorwalls), with even more identical corridors branching off in the distance.  That wasn’t what gave Dean pause. No, he had definitely seen something different in the last cell on the left before the end of the hall.  He’d almost missed it because he’d been hit with a fresh wave of dizziness thanks to his concussion and progressive blood loss, but as he had straightened up, out of the corner of his eye he _swore_ he’d seen something.

 

He spun against the wall and backtracked a few steps peeking into the cell, leaning heavily against the tansparisteel composite door-frame for support with his good right side.  His eyes tracked impatiently around the cell—toilet, sink, unlit glow panel—nothing special.  He couldn’t concentrate through the fog of _pain_.

 

 _Suck it up, Dean_ , a voice remarkably like his father’s ordered from the back of his mind. 

 

 _I_ can _do this_ , he thought.  All it would take was patience.  And determination not to let the pain or blood loss win.  And if this would get him closer to Cas…

 

Dean took as deep a breath as his bruised, electrocuted ribs could handle, and hoisted himself more upright, the fingers of his right hand going white where they gripped the doorframe.  He needed to search systematically.  He started in the nearest corner of the cell at floor level and traced his eyes around the cell, moving up with each successive pass.  He began to grow frustrated when he’d reached the top of the cell’s dark glow panel and hadn’t yet found anything out of the ordinary, but he pushed down the growing impatience and continued.

 

One more pass, two, three.  _There_!  That was what he’d seen!  About a half meter above the top of the glow panel on the opposite wall… directly above the sink… was the bottom of some sort of _frame_.  _Could it be?_ he wondered, as his feet took him deeper into the cell. 

 

The light was even dimmer here than in the hall without the benefit of those few glow panels to illuminate it.  He craned his neck up.  _Yes!_   Hope and feelings of victory soared through him, giving Dean new strength.  It was the base of a ysalimir’s nutrient frame.  A crazy idea stuck Dean.  Maybe, if he could somehow get the frame and the ysalimir, and manage to carry them despite his injuries, he could travel around the Temple without fear of dropping dead the moment he accidentally wandered outside the ysalimiri bubble.  Either someone would notice the mobile pocket of Force-less space, or he’d find Cas or something to help treat his injuries or _someone_ willing to help him.  Maybe he’d still die, but at least he’d be doing something.  It sure beat writhing in pain and waiting for the end to come.

 

But how to get it down?  He didn’t have the strength to unbolt any more toilets, nor the energy to drag the now-loose toilet from his cell all the way here—just the thought of traversing the distance to his cell and back made his head spin, but if he climbed on the _sink_ , which was bolted to the wall…  Dean scrambled up without waiting to run the numbers in his head.  He was running out of time.  This would either work, or it wouldn’t.  No sense prolonging it.

 

He pushed off the wall deep in concentration, staggering across the room until he reached the sink.  Once there, it was hard, because he could really only use his right arm, and anything even _touching_ his stomach made him sick, but somehow he managed to half-fall, half-crawl into the sink and then push himself up, so he was standing on it.  He pressed his aching head into the cool wall, his body shaking harder than ever.  His body felt like he’d been dipped in an ice bath and someone kept poking him with fiery daggers.   The shaking was so bad his hand slipped from the wall twice, before he successfully pressed his palm to it, steadying himself.  Now it was just a matter of getting to the ysalimir.

 

He leaned against the wall as solidly as his aching, throbbing body would allow, concentrating hard enough to block out most of the pain—it was just a roaring tide of agony in the background. He reached, rising up on his tiptoes, and stretching his arms over his head.  The fingertips of his good hand brushed the bottom of the frame—not quite enough to grab on.  He pressed harder into the wall, ignoring the cacophony of protests from his injuries and _reached_ … _Got it!_   His fingers closed around the bottom of the frame, which was now firmly in his grasp.  Now how to get it down?

 

Dean was still pondering the question, trying to stay focused, a few seconds later, when a scuffling sound from the hallway distracted him, making his lose his precarious balance.  There was a moment of confusion where he was suspended in air, clinging to the bottom of the ysalimir’s frame, and then he was falling backwards, tumbling, arms and legs tangling up with the ysalimir and its structure, and landing with a sickening thud on the hard, stone ground, his body half on the frame, which bent, only slightly cushioning his fall.  Then there was a flurry of echoing footsteps that boomed as loud in Dean’s head as herd of stampeding woolynerf and—

 

“Dean?”

 

It was the voice his soul had been aching to hear ever since he woke up in that cell.  It had to be a dream, but he forced his eyes open, turned his head…  “Cas?” he gasped, as the distinctive, long, beige robes of his Guide and soul-mate strode into view.  Dean coughed, blood spraying out in a hazy, red cloud, droplets landing, coalescing on his chin and chest as Cas knelt down by his side, gentle arms sliding to encircle him, “looks like you found me, after all.”

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 18:**

(meanwhile)

 

Cas Tiel moved through the dimly lit Sith Containment level with such fluidity and alacrity that Shran couldn’t help but admire.  Tiel must have been telling the truth when he said he designed the level, because once he was out of his cell—a situation Shran was getting more comfortable with as the moments pass—and had confirmed Dean’s cell and location, he had moved through the maze of hallways to the emergency corridor at a speed just short of a jog. 

 

The emergency corridors were narrow, so narrow that Shran could feel the stone and metal sides tugging at his robes as they moved past.  Here, it was dark.  In Shran’s haste, he had released the door locks, springing the burnished metal panels free from the surrounding rock so that they swung outwards, revealing the hallway inside, but he hadn’t activated the emergency lighting.  The emergency corridors were not continuous, but instead, provided shortcuts and across and through rows of cells as well as bridging the separate cell blocks. 

 

Where the corridors cut across cells the short way, linking one hallway to the next, the darkness wasn’t so noticeable.  It was dim, dimmer than in the glow panel–lit main hallways, but not cloyingly dark, the light from either hallway streaming into the cramped space and providing some illumination until they were quickly deposited out in the main hall.  On the other hand, when the corridors cut lengthwise down a row of cells and where they crossed the thick, reinforced barrier between the two cell blocks, the darkness was oppressive, impenetrable.  The meager light of from the hallways simply couldn’t reach the inner reaches of the emergency corridors, rendering the passage pitch black.

 

Under normal circumstances, with the aid of the Force, Shran would likely not have noticed the darkness.  But now, without the Force to calm or guide him and moving rapidly through the narrow space, Shran was feeling a rather embarrassing and disconcerting touch of claustrophobia. 

 

“Hurry, we are nearly to Dean’s hall,” Tiel called over his shoulder from somewhere ahead. 

 

Shran pushed down the rolling swell of nausea and—panic?—that threatened to overwhelm him and squinted.  _Ah, yes,_ if he looked closely, Shran could just make out a tiny patch ahead of him where the darkness seemed more—grey.  It must be the hall Tiel was talking about.  Shran doubled his pace, nearly tripping over his robes.  He was just as eager to get out of the corridor as he was to get to Winchester.

 

Finally, Shran stumbled out of the narrow opening, nearly knocking himself over as he bumped into the metal panel that served as a hidden door for the emergency corridor.

 

He was at a junction in the Northwestern cellblock.  The long row of cells he and Tiel had just traversed ended, the two halls on either side of it, intersecting a hallway perpendicular to them, which continued to the right and left with cells along both walls.  Far up ahead, he could see that hallway ending in another “t” junction. 

 

Once his eyes adjusted to the light, Shran could see Tiel moving briskly with long, graceful strides down the hall to the left.  Shran quickly hurried after him.  If this was Winchester’s hallway—and it should be, based both on the schematic he’d memorized and on Tiel’s apparent familiarity with the Sith Containment level—then there should be an illuminated cell, door closed and invisible, door glowing pink-orange and semitransparent, and a minute amount of extra light from the cell’s glow panel spilling into the hallway.  Yet, he saw _nothing_ , just cell after cell after cell on both sides, all empty, all dim _.  Had the schematics lied?  Had Zachariah and Uriel taken Winchester somewhere else?  Would they be able to find him in time?  Would—_

 

Shran’s frantic train of thought cut off, his racing heartbeat steadying along with it, when he noticed that Tiel had stopped a little more than halfway down the corridor, right about where Winchester’s cell should have been.  As he moved closer, Shran could see there was indeed something _different_ about this cell.  The wall was semi-opaque, for one thing, much like it appeared when the wall was activated and the ray shield in place, but the door was open, and the cell was dark and there was no pink-orange glow.

 

Tiel was hovering in the doorway, looking intently at something inside the cell. 

 

As Shran stepped closer, his nostrils were assaulted with the sharp tang of ozone overlaying something else…  His mind involuntarily flashed to images of charred and twisted corpses; singed flesh smeared on the warped remains of expensive tile flooring; melted, bubbled durasteel, scorched ferrocrete—the fires the Sith— _Darth Azazel_ had set.  He was smelling charred flesh.  _But how?_

 

“This was Dean’s cell,” Tiel murmured half to himself, half to Shran as he dropped to a crouch.  “He has escaped.”

 

“How—” Shran started, his voice cutting off as he saw the inside of the cell.  Hell, he’d heard the noise, and knew Winchester had done _something_ , but this?  This was elaborate.  Impressive.  His eyes darted over the tableau before him: the dismantled sink faucets, a torn strip of clothing, the un-anchored toilet pressed against the far wall, the discarded glow panel cover, and the long trail of glowwire stretched across the room diagonally and wired into the door mechanism… _oh_ , and there was bits of charred fabric and human skin—his stomach turned unpleasantly—stuck to the darkened end of the glowwire.  Apparently, without the aid of the Force, Shran’s iron stomach was actually quite sensitive.

 

“I told you, Dean is resourceful; he is a Hunter.  Trained to make do with what he has, not what he _wants_.  Trained to survive, escape, thrive—without the Force,” Tiel said, looking up, his eyes meeting Shran’s as he spoke the last words.

 

Shran understood the accusation, the criticism in that, and right now he couldn’t find it in him to disagree or defend the order.  After all, thanks to the close-mindedness of a few members of the Jedi High Council, the fate of all life in the universe had been jeopardized, he was queasy at the sigh of a little burnt skin, and a relatively un-trained force adept—who was probably mortally wounded—had just escaped from a Sith Containment Cell without any tools or assistance and while cut off from the Force.  The Order wasn’t exactly looking very good at the moment.

 

While Shran stood there, speechless, Tiel was moving.  Leaning forward while balanced on his haunches, Shran saw his fingers pick up a strip of something that looked vaguely familiar.

 

“He took this from his boot,” Tiel explained, holding up a leather strap and buckle that had been fashioned into a crude strap wrench along with the handle from the cell’s small sink. 

 

 _Good grief, now that Winchester’s turned the ‘fresher into a weapon, what is the Council going to insist on now?  No facilities for prisoners?_  Shran shuddered at the thought.  It sounded so denigrating to sapient life.

 

Shran had expected Tiel to hold up the strap for his inspection, or pass it on so he could admire Winchester’s handiwork, but instead, Tiel held onto it, fingers running over the supple leather almost reverently, transfixed.  Shran knew once again, there was something _more_ going on, something happening beneath the surface that without more context or the aid of the Force, he just couldn’t see.

 

Tiel looked up suddenly, eyes seeming to dart around the cell.  “He doesn’t have much time.  We must find him.”

 

“What makes you—” Shran started, once again cutting himself off as he saw the answer to his question at about the same moment Tiel pointed to it.  Shran couldn’t suppress his involuntary gasp as he saw a pool of vomit in the sink full of what was definitely blood.  As he looked more closely, he could see more evidence of Winchester’s declining health.  There, on the wall adjacent to the jury-rigged glowwire door opener, was a large splotch of blood as if Winchester had hit his head, and sure enough, several smaller drips and drops of blood on the floor around them.

 

Shran was just reaching down, awkwardly angling his body around the glowwire contraption to run a finger through one of the larger drops of blood to see how fresh it was, when he lost his balance slightly, feet back pedaling and scuffing against the floor rather loudly as he struggled to right himself.  Under no circumstances did he want to tumble onto the electrified wire (the thought of singed flesh again came to mind unbidden) or fall into the fetid drainpipe that lay open where the toilet had once sat.  He had barely regained his footing, when a tremendous crash sounded from somewhere outside the cell.  _Maybe down the hall to the left?_

 

“Dean—” Tiel expressed, more quietly than Shran expected, springing to his feet in a smooth, almost elegant motion, while Shran scrambled upright with significantly less grace.  Before Shran had his footing, Tiel was tearing out of the cell and down the hall to the left, once again, moving faster than Shran had thought possible without the aid of the Force, Tiel’s feet echoing like thunder in the high-ceilinged corridor.

 

Shran had only covered half the distance between Winchester’s old cell and the end of the hallway when he heard Tiel exclaim “Dean?” loudly and dart with significantly less grace into the last cell on the left at the end of the hall.  Shran quickened his pace.

 

The scene as he neared the t-junction at the end of the hall was not what he expected, although, _what_ he had expected, he wasn’t really sure.  Tiel was half kneeling, half sprawling inside the dark cell’s open door, his feet hanging out into the hallway.  His arms were wrapped around Dean Winchester, Tiel’s right arm and hand supporting Winchester’s neck and head, while his left arm curled around Winchester’s body, his hand gripping the young force adept’s right bicep gingerly. 

 

He couldn’t really see what was happening though, because Tiel’s body was leaning forward, almost protectively hovering over Winchester, and blocking much of the cell from view.  Shran stepped around Tiel’s extended legs to the far side of the door, where the angle afforded him a better view.

 

The scene registered in flashes, realization of what he was seeing washing over Shran like a monsoon.  Winchester was lying half on the floor, and half on the twisted hulk of a ysalimir’s nutrient frame.  There was a broken, frayed length of synthrope dangling from far overhead that suggested both Winchester and the lizard had taken a fall from some height.  The lizard appeared to be fine, the eye closest to Shran blinking slowly in recognition as he stared at it.  Winchester, however, was not.

 

There was blood crusted on his face and matted in his light hair.  His skin was ashen and pale, and his legs were twisted in the frame in such a way that made it impossible to tell if they were broken.  His back was at an awkward angle, one edge of the frame appeared to be pressed into his back near his right kidney, lifting his hip and lower back off the stone floor.  Shran could see that Winchester’s right hand was burned, bits of fabric—probably from his raggedly torn tunic—stuck to the skin and embedded in a few blisters.  His abdomen also looked strangely full.

 

Winchester was speaking, “—looks like you found me, after all,” his words punctuated by a wet cough and a spray of crimson blood.  Shran watched, transfixed, as the droplets fanned in the air, some landing on Tiel, others on Winchester’s face, chest, chin.  Winchester was shaking like a leaf in the wind.

 

“I knew you would escape.  I came as fast as I could,” Tiel said solemnly, his voice sounding clenched, pained.  Shran noticed Tiel’s left hand slide up Winchester’s injured arm to cup his face, fingers brushing gently— _affectionately_ even—at Winchester’s neck, before stroking the back of his hand lightly, back and forth against the young force adept’s cheek.

 

“‘M sorry, Cas; hate to let you down,” Winchester gave a wet, bitter chuckle that shook his entire body. His back arched, and nearly turned into a coughing fit, “hate to let everyone down,” he murmured; then more loudly, “but I don’t think you can heal me this time.”  Winchester stilled somewhat, his throat bobbing with what was apparently a very painful swallow.

 

“Dean—” Tiel said urgently, almost pleading, as he leaned closer to Winchester’s chest, eyes darting around his face, body, the room, taking everything in.

 

Weakly, Winchester raised his right hand, the one free of burns and blisters and charred flesh, and reached up, shakily, to pat at Tiel’s left arm, after several taps, he succeeded in getting Tiel’s attention, their hands meeting and grasping tightly together—at least as tightly as Winchester could manage.  Shran saw Winchester entwine their fingers together before guiding Tiel’s hand to his stomach.

 

Tiel patted, then pressed harder, eyes widening as he felt around Winchester’s belly, his head snapping up to meet Winchester’s exhausted, moss-green eyes.  Shran realized there had been no _give_ to Winchester’s abdomen…

 

“‘M bleeding,” was Winchester’s pained reply.  “Been bleeding for hours.  Got knocked out by the force-shield thing on the door, and then woke up and the ysalimiri…” he trailed off, his body wracked by a particularly violent cough that made his head and body bounce in Tiel’s arms, more blood—a thicker cloud—misting in the air with each sputter and shudder. “Got electrocuted too, with… the… door.”  He hack-gasped at the end of his speech.

 

Shran wanted to look away—to give them privacy for what was obviously a very painful moment, but if Winchester was as vital to the survival of life of the Force itself, Shran couldn’t walk away.  He needed to stay, in case there was anything he could do to help.

 

“I have to—” Tiel started, pulling his hand back from Winchester’s rigid belly and sliding it tenderly up his arm.  “I have to,” he said again, more forcefully, but whether he had to try, succeed, save Winchester, the words went unsaid. 

 

Master Shran himself felt great mourning and sorrow over the situation.  Even if Winchester was _not_ the Healer of the Force, his death would still be senseless, meaningless, unjust.  The product of selfish close-mindedness and overconfidence.  But Shran did believe, and he was at a loss.  Would the Universe snuff out so silently, unexpectedly?

 

He could see the frustration, terror, sorrow, longing, disbelief—desperation playing over the faces and body language of the two men before him.  Shran could see that there was trust, friendship, respect, admiration—a much deeper bond there than he had expected.  Still, he felt like he was missing something, and cursed again at how useless and disoriented he felt without the Force to draw on.

 

“I think it’s too late,” Winchester said, his speech clearer and louder than it had been, a note of pure sorrow and disbelief in his voice.  “I’m so—”

 

Winchester’s words were cut off again, but this time, it was by Tiel, moving, bending, swooping forward with catlike grace while he lifted, pulled Winchester towards his chest, gently squeezing them closer together and pulling up to a sitting position while his mouth—  Tiel’s and Winchester’s lips met in a kiss.  Just a press of lips at first, as if reassuring each other the contact was real, then opening, searching, delving, their tongues intertwining, sliding and flicking from mouth to mouth, as the kiss became more passionate, while their hands—well Winchester’s good hand and Tiel’s hand that wasn’t supporting Winchester’s body, head, and neck—frantically petted and searched, squeezing and tugging them together. 

 

Shran was baffled, awed almost at how neither seemed offended or perturbed by the ample amount of blood in and around Winchester’s mouth.

 

He heard Winchester give a faint wheezing gasp, and realized Tiel’s back—which was still pointed to him—was heaving up and down.  Tiel pulled back just enough to let Winchester breathe and panted into the side of his face, pressing a gentle kiss to it and whispering something in Winchester’s ear.

 

 _Oh._ Oh _!_   Shran suddenly realized what he’d been missing all along.  Jedi…  The Order forbade close personal attachments, and while it by no means ordered its members to be celibate, the prohibition on attachments tended to preclude romantic love or any sort of _relationship_.  Some Jedi did bend, brake, or even flagrantly disregard the rules, but it was relatively uncommon, and so Shran had not seen many— _lovers, soul-mates_ —among the Force users he’d known.  Suddenly his entire interaction with Tiel and Winchester was colored in a new light.

 

Winchester shook again, body erupting in a cacophony of wet, hacking sobs, sending more blood flying from his body.  Shran could see the young man’s eyes start to glaze and drift.

 

“No,” Tiel said firmly, then, “no, no, no, no, _no…_ ” he implored, his pleas whispered against the side of Winchester’s face, as he squeezed his lover too him with more strength than was probably advisable.  “No, Dean, _I have to save you_.  Stay with me, stay with me, _please_!” he begged.

 

“Tryin’,” Winchester managed to wheeze, his eyes refocusing again, clearly struggling to stay in the here and now by focusing on his partner.

 

Tiel’s body suddenly went rigid, and he froze, stock still, before pulling Winchester and himself fully upright into a seated position, in dong so, he eased Winchester’s hip and lower back off of the ysalimir frame, causing it to skid away slightly.  Suddenly, Tiel turned towards Shran, pinning him with a piercing, blue stare.  “Master Shran, the Operations Level…” he began, urgently, “does it still have kol— _Bacta_ there, for emergencies?” he asked, after struggling for the right word.

 

At that moment Winchester’s eyes tracked Tiel’s widening with apparent shock as he took in Master Shran’s presence for the first time.  He was racked with fear, his body instinctively flailing and struggling to push away, retreat, put more distance between him and Shran.

 

Shran would have felt taken aback, but he understood now, where the boy’s fear stemmed from.  He couldn’t blame him.  He could barely comprehend the _idea_ of Winchester’s existence, let alone imagine what it must be like to have that kind of connection to the Force, to have that much weight, that much pain, that much importance, foisted on oneself at all times.

 

“Shh, shh,” Tiel comforted, whispering into Winchester’s hair, his hands patting soothingly.  “It’s all right, Dean, he’s with us.  He knows.  He’s here to help.” 

 

As Tiel spoke the last words, Winchester turned his head slightly, catching his lover’s gaze.  He seemed to find something there, strength or reassurance Shran didn’t know, but whatever it was, clearly gave him peace, and Winchester stopped, struggling, taught body relaxing slightly against Tiel, and eyes tracking back towards Shran, waiting for a response.

 

Shran’s mind raced.  “Y—yes,” he stammered, “there are emergency medkits in the operations level—there’s a small clinic there; we staff it with heaters sometimes—”

 

“What kind of Bacta—how much, what form?” Tiel asked hurriedly, not looking at Shran, but instead studying the cell, gaze seeming to drift around as he examined the ysalimir’s frame and assessed Winchester’s other injuries.

 

“Uh—um,” Shran hated sounding like a nervous schoolboy, but the situation was so psychologically disorienting, and it had been so long since he last had reason to ponder the contents of the Detention Center’s emergency supplies that he couldn’t help it.  Especially not without the Force.  Finally he remembered what the medkits held. “Salve, patches, Bactade, and some injectable Bacta.”

 

Tiel gave a small half-nod, more a bob of his head than anything else, and turned his undivided attention back on Winchester.

 

“Dean,” he said, voice little more than a whisper, yet seeming to echo thanks to the cell’s cavernous ceiling, “I need you to hold on for me, just a little longer.  We can make this work.”  Tiel’s tone was pleading, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Winchester.

 

“Y’mean shoot me full’a Bacta, then heal me?” Winchester croaked though blood-spattered lips, his breath hitching, as his eyes met Tiel’s and locked.

 

“I mean,” Tiel nodded in answer.

 

“‘Swhat I was trying to do w’the ysalimir,” Dean half-chuckled.

 

Shran wasn’t sure he understood, once again feeling a rush of awkward embarrassment as he stood in the doorway, intruding on such a poignant and intimate reunion.

 

“Master Shran,” Tiel’s voice came loud and strong, booming in the corridor.  Still, he did not move his gaze from Winchester, “I need you to pick up the ysalimir and its frame and follow us as quickly as possible to the stairs.  I need to get Dean to Bacta.”

 

“Okay,” Shran answered, springing into action, grateful to have something to _do_ at last.  He squeezed around Tiel to get through the door, stepping over Tiel’s legs and circling around to the other side of the lizard’s bent nutrient frame, finally dropping to his hands and knees.

 

Tiel was sliding his arm under Winchester’s legs, snaking it between the young Force-sensitive’s knees and the mangled portion of the frame.  “I need you to stay within three meters at all times,” Tiel implored, finally meeting Master Shran’s eyes, the gravity and burning intensity prompting a reflexive nod from Shran.

 

“I will,” he agreed.

 

“Good,” Tiel answered wit ha satisfied nod, turning his attention back to Winchester.  “We can’t risk him coming back in contact with the Force before he is treated,” he added with a much softer, almost reverent tone.

 

“I understand,” Shran replied, as he found a grip on the frame.  It was big, about a meter long, half a meter wide, and two-thirds of a meter tall, or would have been if one end wasn’t bent and tangled with Winchester’s legs, reducing its height on that end by about half. 

 

The frame almost looked like brownish wood, but Shran knew it was likely made from the same nourishing nutrient mix the residents of Myrkr had used in their carrying backpacks.  Only this frame wasn’t designed for carrying, so it was a little awkward.

 

Shran slid his right hand onto the crushed end, grabbing the frame by its bent vertical support, while holding the top of the unbent side with his left.  He tried not to look at the unmoving lizards perched on a branch-like nutrient tube that ran the length of the frame, with its eerie, slow, blinking golden eyes.

 

“Okay, I’m ready,” he reported.

 

“On three,” Tiel responded, adding to Winchester, “Hold on, Dean; just a little longer.”

 

Winchester didn’t answer, but leaned into Tiel as best he could with his weak, injured body, as if closeness alone could heal him.

 

“One, two, three…”

 

~~~

~~~

 **[Continued in Part 2...](http://archiveofourown.org/works/126414/chapters/179091) **

 


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of The Fulcrum of the Force...

**Chapter 19:**

Dean was drifting in and out of consciousness, only peripherally aware of what was happening.  Cas had said something about Bacta, and even in Dean’s oxygen starved and pain addled mind, that made sense… as long as he didn’t leave the ysalimiri’s protective bubble before he had healed enough to survive.  _How was that going to work again?_

 

 _Oh, right,_ he answered his own unspoken question, someone—Master Shran, the same Jedi who’d been hunting them, dogging their every move like flies on bantha dung, he was helping them, carrying the ysalimir Dean had knocked down. 

 

Boy had that sucked! His nerves were already misfiring so badly from the electrocution, he couldn’t tell what did and didn’t hurt, what was broken, or even what he could or couldn’t move or feel.  But judging from the way he could feel a vague throb in the vicinity of his right kidney where the frame had been pressing into it, he knew he couldn’t have done his condition any favors.

 

But that was okay.

 

All that mattered was _Cas_ was here.  And Cas said Shran was alright, and Cas had a plan.  For the first time since losing consciousness in his cell, Dean felt okay, like he could relax and _trust_.  Even though he couldn’t feel Cas’s presence in his mind, he could feel his body warm and solid against him, smell him, hear and feel his heart beating, taste the salt of his tears and sweat.  Dean didn’t want to die, not least of all because it would doom the universe, doom— _Sam_ —but now that Cas was here, Dean knew if he had to die, his soul would be at peace (even if he still wasn’t sure where it would go without the Force there) because he was with _Cas_.  Because Cas loved him, and Cas knew, he knew how hard Dean had fought, and he would now what had happened to Dean.  There would be no open-ended wondering; no gnawing torment of not knowing—Dean didn’t want to be responsible for that kind of pain in anyone.

 

Still, he had to hold on.  Cas had told Dean he loved him, and then he had whispered something else in Dean’s ear.  _Cas had seen a vision.  A vision of the future in which Dean—won.  Where he saved Sam and stopped Azazel from destroying the Force._  

 

Dean knew from the tone of Cas’s voice that he was serious.  It wasn’t a story made up to try to give Dean motivation to survive, but rather a sight so _hopeful_ and _real_ that Cas had been afraid to voice it lest the endlessly twisting, turning, morphing future change in some way that it could not come true, or pervert the vision somehow.  Dean understood how Cas felt about prophecy and prediction, he understood the pitfalls of trying to bank on a supposedly certain future that was open to all the twists and turns of chance and myriad interpretations and points of view.  But here, now, knowing Cas had seen that possible future gave Dean hope—and that was enough to cling to when his life was trying to slip away.

 

“On three,” he heard Cas say before Cas mumbled something more about Dean holding on. 

 

Dean wanted to shout and tell his lover he’d hold on forever for him, but he found it took too much effort to speak.  Instead he just leaned into Cas, taking comfort in his solidity and strength, trying not to think about how much it would hurt to be moved, how stiffening up would make it worse, how—

 

“Ungaaaah,” Dean felt himself moaning.  It was more of a scream really; possibly a wail.  But he couldn’t stop it; control it.  On _three_ Cas had lifted him, pulling Dean closer to his chest as he stood—or at least that was how Dean interpreted the sense of vertigo-inducing motion—while Shran must have pulled the ysalimir frame away from his legs.  The pain was excruciating.  Dean still couldn’t tell if anything was broken or if he could move, but his lower body felt like a million hot, white knives were stabbing him, all at the same time, some of the knives twisting.  All of that overlaid the generalized _ache_ of electrocution that he’d been battling ever since shorting out the forcefield on the doorwall.

 

After that, Dean didn’t remember much.  He nearly blacked out from the pain, but he was aware of movement, Cas holding him, darkness that wasn’t just his closed eyes, and cramped space.  Sometimes, through the constant reassuring murmurs of Cas’s voice, apologizing for the pain Dean was in, reassuring him of Cas’s love and devotion, imploring him to hold on, he could hear the rough, rasping rustle as Cas’s robes brushed against stone walls.  The walls must have been _very_ close in, yet Dean never brushed them or bumped his head or feet—Cas was just that careful.

 

Although he couldn’t sense anyone in the Force, Dean was also aware of Shran behind them, presumably carrying the ysalimir, his breathing and footsteps echoing in the strange spaces and filling up the darkness.  At some point, after what felt like a very long trek, although it could have been just minutes—Dean’s sense of time was nonexistent and skewed now as every breath was labored agony—they paused, and he heard Cas and Shran talking again.  He heard the beeping of a keypad and the _whoosh_ of a door being opened, and then he noticed the sense of being carried into a very different space.

 

They were going down stairs, and it _hurt_ , because each step down—and they were _slippery_ steps, he knew because he felt Cas _slip_ and for a split-second he thought the fight was all over—jostled him.  It was also brighter, light leaking in through his closed eyelids.  The walls were close, but not so close as whatever they’d passed through on the way from the cell where he knocked down the Ysalimir, and the stairs were _curving_.  He could feel the ceiling was high, but not as high as in the detention center.  Cas paused again, shuffling to the side, and somehow keeping Dean from being bumped by the ysalimir frame Shran was carrying (he could _feel_ the wind it created as it moved, though) so Shran could enter in some sort of code.

 

There was the click of a latch opening and more movement, as he felt Cas carry him into what felt like a _normal_ room.  He was losing his grip on reality.  It was all slipping away, fading in and out, bits and pieces of the information from his senses making it through to Dean’s awareness.  He was holding on, but just barely, to Cas.  Only Cas.  Always Cas.

 

“Where are the medkits; where can I put him?” he heard Cas ask Shran, as Dean felt himself moving speedily through the space, Cas’s smooth, brisk strides propelling them along.

 

Dean balked at the idea of being _put_ anywhere; he wanted nothing more to be in Cas’s arms.  He struggled to open his eyes, taking in a dim, but still lit level populated by dark metals and stones and computer terminals sprinkled every meter or two.  Dean tried to tighten his grip on Cas’s robe, but his fingers weren’t really responding any more.  He thought he might have moaned, but he couldn’t really be sure.

 

“Shhhh,” Cas reassured, talking into Dean’s hair, his breath making tiny, tickling puffs that almost succeeded in making Dean giggle.  “I’m not letting you go,” he soothed.  “I just need to lay you down while I inject the Bacta,” Cas added, in a deep, firm tone that told Dean Cas realized the process would be incredibly painful.  Dean couldn’t really think clearly any more, but the soothing sound of Cas’s voice registered, and made Dean calm somewhat.

 

Still, as the first of the needle’s drifted into Dean’s blurry line of sight, Dean twitched a little in anticipation, and Cas, soothed him further, petting his hair.

 

“Just through here,” Shran finally replied, leading them past what Dean thought was a ‘fresher and then a fully stocked food-prep room. 

 

 _Operations level; detention center staff live here sometimes_.  After the kitchen, they moved into a dimmer room with grey-blue walls, and a smell about it that almost screamed _clinic_.  The part of his mind that was supplying the information wasn’t really aware, it was reacting reflexively, cataloguing everything the way Dad had taught him so long ago.  He _missed_ Dean; and he _missed_ Sam.  Dean just wanted Cas to hold him and the pain to stop.

 

“I’m laying you down now,” Cas said soothingly as he bent forward, and Dean felt his body slowly lowering onto a very soft, pleasantly cool diagnostic bed.  He started drifting again, feeling the darkness suck him in, but then. “Where’s that Bacta?  I need as many syringes as you can find!” Dean heard Cas call to Shran.  Cas sounded scared; Dean didn’t like it when Cas was hurt or afraid.

 

There were a few moments of rustling noises punctuated by clanking, the swoosh of cabinets opening and closing, and the occasional loud _thunk_.  He couldn’t quite remember why, but he was pretty sure people were moving frantically around him.  It was getting really hard to breathe.

 

“Here,” Shran said, the loudness and closeness of his voice snapping Dean back to himself. Dean opened his eyes and saw Shran was panting, sweating, as he stepped into Dean’s hazy field of vision.  Master Shran was holding up seven large pre-prepped Bacta syringes.

 

Dean felt Cas’s left hand leave his body, and saw him take the syringes from Master Shran.  Then he could feel Cas’s nimble, gentle fingers on his painfully distended belly, flipping up the bottom of the tunic and loosening his pants. 

 

The cooler air on his fever-hot skin, brought some awareness back to Dean, and he managed to focus on Cas’s face.

 

“I am sorry, Dean, but this _will_ hurt,” Cas apologized sincerely.

 

Dean saw the size of the needle, knew the pain that would follow as he started to heal, and couldn’t find it in himself to speak.  He didn’t have the energy.  He knew Cas didn’t want to hurt him, but there was no choice.  The Bacta would expand his abdomen further, causing _more_ pain, before the helpful bacteria that made Bacta the wonder drug it was, began consuming the blood, and converting it into energy and resources to use in repairing his damaged organs.  The detached clinical part of Dean’s brain that seemed to keep speaking up and filling his mind with useless facts, reminded him that Bacta would cause rapid tissue regeneration.  His torn and bleeding insides would stitch themselves back together, and Dean knew from experience that it felt like an awful itch you couldn’t scratch, an itch on the inside, as you healed.  Plus there was the awful, sickly sweet aroma of the Bacta that was making him nauseous.  But he still couldn’t speak, and instead, he nodded, a faint, almost imperceptible tip of the head, that Cas acknowledged.

 

He felt Cas’s hand squeeze his shoulder, saw something moving out of the corner of his eye… And then the first needle stabbed into Dean.  It felt like his belly had exploded.  White, burning knives slicing through him as the Bacta entered his body, there was pressure and so much pain.  It was harder and harder to move his lungs, and he thought he moaned…. Could hear himself cry out, but when he started shaking, it shook his head too, and his back spasmed and then the throbbing in his scull reached a crescendo and stabbed outward, black spots exploding behind his eyes, and then he _did_ pass out, but not before realizing that the drug was starting to do its job.  Maybe Dean _could_ pull though after all.  But then he was lost in the blackness, and he didn’t think at all.

 

Dean wasn’t sure how long he was out, but it couldn’t have been that long because when he came to and blinked open the scratchy, heavy lids of his eyes, he could see the Bacta syringes and realized Cas had only given him one more injection.

 

Dean wasn’t sure if he made a noise or what—his senses were still somewhat scrambled and unreliable—but no sooner had his eyelids fluttered open, than Cas was hovering over him.  “Drink this,” Cas said to him as he tapped Dean on the shoulder gently, prompting Dean to focus on a cup of something in his hand.

 

Dean’s eyes struggled to focus, the full reality of the situation coming back to him hurriedly, and his eyes immediately began wandering around the room.  He could see Master Shran standing against the wall in a cubby space created between two cabinets.  The room was slightly more illuminated than when Dean had passed out, but still screamed _hospital_ to him.  Shran looked awkward and fidgety, and Dean couldn’t suppress a little pleasure at that.

 

He then brought his eyes to focus on Cas, or rather Cas’s hand, which was hovering in front of Dean’s face now and still holding that cup.

 

The smell hit him and made his stomach turn.  It was all Dean could do not to puke all over his lover.  _Bactade_ , he realized ruefully.  Sure, he did need it, but the cloying, sickly sweet aroma and tasted reminded him of something that should _make_ one sick not, _better_.  If not for the amazing healing properties of Bacta in al its forms, he totally would have advocated salting and burning the entire galactic supply of the stuff.  He groaned inwardly; he’d be tasting it for _days_.

 

“Dean,” Cas prompted, knowingly, “you _need_ this.”  His eyes were soft and understanding, yet haunted with fear.

 

Dean hated seeing that pain in his lover’s face.  Hated being part of the reason it was there.  _Not your fault_ , he admonished himself silently.  And _huh_ , if his mind wasn’t operating a tad more clearly just with the two doses of Bacta Cas had already given him… but no, he still needed the Bactade, and _still_ … it didn’t change that he hated seeing Cas in pain.  Dean reached out with his right hand, which was shaking badly.

 

Cas slipped an arm under Dean’s back and lifted him to a half-sitting position.  He passed the cup to Dean, his finger’s closing around Dean’s hand and wrist to help steady the shaking.

 

Slowly, Dean lifted the cup to his lips and drank.  He tried to block out the overwhelming stench by not breathing through his nose, but as the Bactade slipped down his throat and began saturating his tissues, Dean conceded it was a losing battle.

 

He drank for several minutes, mostly because he just couldn’t swallow more than a tiny sip at a time, at least not if he wanted to stay breathing, but at last, the sticky, syrupy suspension was all gone.  Already, he could feel it gong to work—it was a little easier to breathe and the deep ache in his ribs from the electrocution was starting to abate.  Dean knew that Bacta didn’t work _that_ quickly, especially since the Bactade would have to pas through his body’s systems and tissues to reach the most injured parts, but just knowing it was there, working, healing, relieved a lot of the psychological strain that had been causing his condition to deteriorate faster.

 

Cas looked at him worriedly, “We should wait a little while, let the Bacta work before we inject more.”

 

Dean nodded, his head throbbing with the movement.  He’d still die if they tried to expose him to the Force now.  They just needed a little time—hopefully he’d heal faster than the Force would tear apart, or this would all be for naught.  Dean knew it was the concussion talking, playing into his greatest fears and fatalist thinking, but that didn’t make it any less of a real possibility.  Nothing they could do but keep going.

 

In the meantime, there were some not-so-minor problems they needed to solve.

 

“We need to get my lightsaber,” Dean announced to the room, eyes flicking from Cas, who was still standing next to him, arm curled around Dean’s back, to Master Shran’s lurking figure.

 

“We will have to figure out where they have taken it,” Cas murmured quietly, nodding through the anger coloring his voice. 

 

Dean understood.  The lightsaber _was_ special in and of itself, but the Jedi Masters were violating a sacred bond by taking it from Dean, although they probably didn’t know that— _Not that they would likely care, believe, or listen if I’d had a chance to explain_ , Dean realized bitterly.

 

“The lightsaber.”  Master Shran spoke suddenly, startling Dean so he jumped, spasms of pain running throughout his torso.

 

“Yes, _my_ lightsaber,” he gritted out, turning his aching head towards Shran.  At least the Bactade seemed to be easing the pain of his concussion.

 

He felt Cas shift closer to him, protectively, his hand sliding to rest on Dean’s shoulder.

 

“I know where it is,” Shran said, sounding strangely unsettled, “But… It’s not yours; it contains a precious artifact at its core—the _Aequitas Animae_ , it’s a sacred crystal…  The Council has put it on display for the Jedi to see a part of our heritage.”  Shran was protesting. 

 

Dean’s weary brain hinted that there was something he was missing, but he didn’t have the strength to figure out what.  Still he flinched at how Shran said ‘our heritage’ in such an _exclusive_ way.  Not Dean’s heritage.  Even though the lightsaber was more about that than _anything_.  But dean didn’t have the energy.  He let Cas take over instead.

 

“D you know where it is?” Cas asked, seamlessly picking up the conversation when Dean couldn’t.

 

Dean leaned his shoulder back against Cas, grateful for his support.

 

“Yes,” Shran answered hesitantly, “but the Council has been looking for it for years, and now it’s on display where it was always supposed to be.  You’ll have to get, or construct a new—”

 

“It was my mother’s,” Dean interjected bluntly, unable to suppress the surge of emotion that washed through him every time he thought of her—her memories ad his blending in his mind in a mix of melancholy and fierce love.

 

“Your… _your mother_?” Shran gaped in disbelief.  “But that lightsaber belonged to Mary Campbell, and she was believed dead thirty-three years ago—”  His tone suggested he thought Dean might have been misled.

 

“Mary Campbell _was_ my mother,” Dean bit out in frustration.  “Darth Azazel murdered her when I was four years old, the same night he marked my brother.”  He didn’t want to share that with Master Shran, but Dean was still in enough pain and so exhausted that his normally iron-clad control over his emotions—at least around people who weren’t Cas or… _Sammy_ , was slipping.

“Not everyone who leaves the order winds up with a statue in the archives; that is just a story the Order tells itself to feel better,” Cas interjected.  Dean could tell from Shran’s rather uncomfortable expression that Cas must be fixing him with one of his soul-piercing glares.

 

“your mother was killed by Darth Azazel?” Shran asked at last, shaking himself, clearly not keeping up.

 

“Yes—” Dean started again, his voice breaking off as another wave of pain hit him.  He was still bleeding; he could feel it now; it hadn’t stopped yet.  He went rigid against Cas as his muscles spasmed.

 

Cas stroked Dean’s arm soothingly and began preparing another Bacta injection.

 

“Even if she is your mother, that lightsaber still has great worth—” Shran protested again, beginning to pace back and forth across the room, one elbow resting in one hand while the other hand stroked his goatee. 

 

Dean couldn’t respond.  He was still in too much pain, especially as Cas pushed the third shot of Bacta into his belly.  He just wanted Shran to stop.  Shut up.  Listen.  Either help them or not, but make up his mind already, and stop hovering in continual indecision.  If the stakes weren’t so high and time so short, Dean would be more patient and willing to indulge Master Shran in a little time to adjust to his worldview being torn apart and tipped on its head.  After all, Dean knew now what _that_ was like.  But Dean didn’t have the energy to spare.

 

Luckily, once again, Cas came to the rescue, making Dean love him even more, if that was even possible.  “Mary Campbell left that lightsaber for Dean.  The _Aequitas Animae_ was cultivated and protected for five thousand years, waiting for Mary to come along, because the Protectorate knew she would need it and would be able to leave it for her son, the Healer.  If you keep that lightsaber from Dean, you will be violating a sacred bond and depriving us of one of the few weapons we have against Darth Azazel and the Chosen One.  Now will you tell us where it is, or not?”  Cas’s voice was booming by the end of his speech, yet somehow it didn’t hurt Dean’s head.  He stayed by Dean’s side—a solid line of protection and an unwavering guide.

 

Dean pressed back harder against Cas, and felt his muscles relax a little as he did so.  Maybe it was the latest injection working, or maybe it was just _Cas_.

 

“They’ve taken it to the Hall of Knighthood.  It’s on display,” Shran answered at last, freezing I place and dropping his hands to his sides, palms up. 

 

Dean thought he looked like a man who had just lost a life-long battle, and was bargaining with the victor for his life—which, considering the circumstances, wasn’t all that unfitting a simile.

 

“I should have listened…” Shran added, cryptically.

 

“Listened to what?” Dean and Cas asked at the same time.

 

“I was near the top of the Tranquility Spire, sending a communiqué to Master Yoda,” Master Shran shifted his gaze to Cas and then Dean meeting their eyes with a piercing gaze.  “Even before I knew; I didn’t approve of how they treated you, or how close-minded they were being,” he apologized.

 

Dean felt himself nodding minutely in acknowledgment, too preoccupied with the slowly waning pain and Shran’s cryptic statement to be aware of having thought to nod.  He was pleasantly surprised when the movement, while painful, didn’t spike and send him towards vomiting again.

 

“The _Force_ was telling me to take it… but I dismissed the feeling; suppressed the urge, because taking it made no sense.  It was just pointless curiosity or defiance of the Council—or so I thought,” Shran admitted shamefully.

 

“That should teach you to always follow the Force—trust the path it lays out for you and the guidance it gives along the way.  For _it_ not the Order, sustains life in the universe,” Cas said sagely, in that commanding tone he got sometimes that reminded Dean his lover really was a five-thousand-year-old Force ghost joined with a much younger body.

 

Dean watched in surprise as Master Shran nodded, humbled.  He had expected a Jedi Master would e too proud for such gestures.  Clearly Dean had painted Shran with too broad a brush.

 

“I can get it.  If I leave now, it will be risky.  Your moving the lizard,” he shook his head, “They may have sensed it, and Masters Zachariah and Uriel are already suspicious of my behavior.  But I _will_ get the lightsaber, and I will succeed.”  Master Shran began to stride back in the direction Dean thought led to the entrance from the stairs.  “Will you two be all right if I go?”

 

“Yes,” Cas urged, again speaking when Dean was unable.

 

“I will return with it,” Shran promised, adding a curt nod and jogging from the room.

 

Maybe it was silly, but Dean sagged with relief the moment Shran was out of sight, and relaxed further when he heard the door to the stairs slam shut with a resounding ‘boom.’  Finally, he was alone with Cas, and he didn’t have to put on a show.  Dean let his eyes drift shut and stopped fighting the muzziness in his brain.  He felt safe when Cas was around.

 

“You don’t have to try to impress him,” Cas said softly, in that voice he used only for Dean, his words and the gentle movement of his hand as it caressed Dean’s brow pulling Dean back to the here and now.

 

“Mm,” Dean half mumbled, half groaned.

 

“Dean, how many times do I have to tell you?  You have nothing to prove.  Just because the Order is powerful does not mean it is right.  The Jedi are not the only Force tradition out there-and I do not mean the Sith is the only other.”  Cas was holding up his hand to forestall any protests from Dean.

 

“There are lots of traditions out there, many more have come and gone over time.  Many of them do not try to divvy the Force into light and dark—it is a silly as trying to see the universe in black and white—you miss all the colors of the rainbow,” Cas chuckled, surprising Dean with his levity.

 

Dean’s mind was still too jumbled and pain-addled to catch on, but he was frustrated, knew he was missing something—there was another nuance or layer to what Cas had just said, and he couldn’t grasp it.

 

“Stop thinking you are inferior,” Cas continued, his tone loving, yet firm, “and stop looking for _their_ approval.”  He tossed his head in the direction Master Shran had left.  “Your father felt the way he did about the Jedi for a reason,” Cas added more solemnly, as he slid his hand behind Dean’s neck and began to massage the whipcord-tight muscles.

The pain instantly eased, and Dean began to think more coherently.  Some of his confusion and frustration must have shown on his face because even without the aid of the Force, Cas still clued in and addressed one of the thoughts that had been tumbling in free-fall through Dean’s mind.

 

“I know how much community, and _family_ , means to you, Dean,” Cas said, leaning in close to Dean’s face, his blue eyes damp with unshed tears.

 

And unlike most people, those words coming from _Cas_ were steeped in meaning, because Dean _knew_ that Cas had felt his emotions through the Force… through their _connection_ , their bond.  Out of everyone in the universe, only Cas actually understood how Dean felt.  And he used that knowledge, that _understanding_ , to protect and strengthen them both.

 

“The Protectorate is its own Force tradition with a five-thousand year history.  Sure it is more… eclectic than most, but its sole mission is protecting the balance of the Force.  If you succeed, it is my hope we will see the tradition live on, always watching, always protecting, and always keeping an eye on the Order.”  Cas paused, leaning in and pressing his lips to Dean’s cheek.  “Always remember that _we_ are your family too, Dean,” he whispered in Dean’s ear.

 

Dean could sense there was more Cas had to say, but he also understood his partner’s choice not to say it was borne out of respect for what was absolutely necessary, and what Dean wasn’t ready to accept yet.  So, _Dean_ accepted that choice and didn’t press.

 

It wasn’t something he would or could have done even six months ago. But Dean knew that Cas would do everything in his power to make sure Dean knew _everything_ if anything were ever to happen to Cas.  It was so unlike Dad’s secrets and need-to-know basis, his unilateral decisions about what everyone else needed based on what _he_ was comfortable with sharing, rather than what was right or necessary for them.  Yet in the end, even John Winchester had figured out what really mattered and figured out a way to get his message across.  Dean could respect that, now.

 

With his lips, Cas traced the line of Dean’s jaw from his ear down to his chin, then swept up to Dean’s mouth, capturing his lips in a gentle, yet passionate kiss.  Even in the absence of the Force, Dean could feel all of Cas’s emotions—love, concern, friendship, loyalty, grief, trust, lust, honor, faith, devotion, and need bound up in every reverent, roving thrust and caress of his tongue.  Cas was directing the kiss, but constantly holding back just enough to check with Dean, make sure everything was okay, not pushing or doing anything that would be too much.

 

Dean loved it, and Cas’s deference to his needs made him fall even deeper in love, if that was possible.  But it also made Dean _yearn_ —to be healed, to feel better, to be back in touch with the Force.  Because there was nothing he wanted more than to be back in their bunk on the Dream with Cas inside him, their connection in the Force growing as they made love, so strong that Dean could see, touch, taste, smell, _feel_ how their _souls_ slotted together, imperfect halves that made a perfect whole.

 

“Patience,” Cas whispered as he pulled back from the kiss, locking eyes with Dean, his expression of _knowing_ showing just how strong their connection was, how in tune they both were, even in this Force-free ysalimir bubble.

 

Dean gave a little involuntary whimper.  “Ok,” he managed to croak out, then cringed as his body chose that moment to cough.

 

Red droplets sprayed across Cas’s face.

 

Dean gave an inward groan.  He felt so much better being _with Cas_ that it was easy to distract himself from how injured he still was.

 

“Which lung is bleeding?” Cas asked, concernedly yet calmly, as he readied another Bacta syringe.

 

Dean didn’t have the same insight into his body now as he did when in contact with the Force, but a lifetime of training as a Hunter with his Force connection mostly shut down had given him ample experience to answer that question.  “Both,” he sighed.

 

Cas gave him a grim nod, and set to work positioning the needle.  “I’ll push half in each lung,” he explained.

 

Dean nodded in understanding.  Getting an injection of liquid Bacta directly into the lung sucked.  There were no two ways about it, but better treatment (inhaled, nebulized Bacta, or full Bacta immersion) was just not possible with the paucity of equipment Dean saw scattered around the clinic, and it would just plain take too long.  Dean would just have to deal with the unpleasant wetness and heaviness of moving the healing fluid through his longs along with the air.  Dean braced himself.

 

Cas was quick.  He completed both halves of the injection over the span of two breaths.  “I’m sorry, he whispered in apology, his eyes showing how much he hated to be involved with causing any of Dean’s pain.

 

Dean took an experimental gulp of air, then another.  It kind of felt like having a bad case of double pneumonia, only most of the oxygen still got to his blood because the Bacta carried it and passed it on.  Dean didn’t think he could speak, at least no yet, but already he could feel some of the burst capillaries and torn alveoli knitting themselves back together.  It could have been terrifying.  A little voice in the back of Dean’s mind wanted to panic, because beneficial or not, there was still fluid in his lungs, and it was hard to breathe in and out.  But he’d been through this before, too many times, and there was a note of familiarity to it.  He knew he _could_ breathe and _would_ get enough oxygen as long as he kept up with the effort of inhaling and exhaling.  Plus, Cas was there.  Just being in close proximity to him grounded Dean.  Even through the pain and uncertainty, Cas was his tether, his steadfast Guide.  Once he was confident he wasn’t going to freak out and give in to the panic at the back of his mind, Dean gave a reassuring smile to Cas.

 

“Good,” Cas sighed.  “Now, we just need to get you some synthblood, and treat your burns—”

 

Dean’s gaze transformed into a glare, his still-healing stomach churning at the thought of synthblood or any other replacement fluids.  Synthblood was rarely used—only really needed when someone was allergic to Bacta or low on bodily fluids with out access to an immersion tank or likely to die before the Bacta could regenerate enough.  Dean was half-convinced that was why they had such crappy side effects—most people never needed to worry about them, so who cared if their primary side effect was—

 

“—And something for the nausea,” Cas added, sympathetically.

 

Nausea.  “Ok,” Dean mouthed.  He closed his eyes and dropped back against the diagnostic bed.  He was pleasantly surprised to find it had a softer-than-normal pillow that softly cradled his aching head.  Huh, maybe the Jedi were good at something.

 

As he relaxed into the sounds of Cas puttering around the clinic, opening and closing cabinets and rummaging through drawers, Dean’s lungs still steadfastly sucking in and exhaling air even with the added burden of the Bacta slowly absorbing, he let his mind wander.

 

He thought of Sam, Miss’Ouri, Dad, Cas—always Cas.  As much as Dean loved Sam and worried for his brother’s fate, he didn’t know how he’d ever _lived_ without Cas.  Not knowing Cas was like not knowing a huge part of _himself_.  Which had been true—for most of his life, he hadn’t known he could touch the Force, or that his Mom was a Jedi (well, he hadn’t really, _consciously_ known), or that he was the Healer.  The before and after were starkly different, and it was even more so with Cas.

 

Then, his mind drifted to Master Shran.  He had such mixed feelings about the Jedi Master.  Part of Dean wanted to accept any assistance they could get, but the rest of him was afraid.  Not in a ‘fear will consume you and take you to the Dark Side’ kind of way, but scared that Shran would betray them.  He had hunted them.  Hunted _Dad_. They were asking him to defy his Oder after all—turning your back on your way of life, on your _family_ was never easy, no matter how good your intentions—his mind flicked painfully to Sam and what were he know understood were Sam’s twisted, well-intentioned reasons for leaving.  _But what was it Cas had said about Shran that made him laugh?  It had something to do with the colors of the rainbow?  Oh!_ Dean realized at last, the connection finally bridging the healing synapses in his bran.

 

Shran could _see_ Force signatures—every person’s presence in the Force and every thing they did all made unique marks on the universe, each with its own shape and color, in all the colors of the rainbow.  Master Shran had always known there was more to the Force than just light and dark.  Dean bet Shran could probably see gradations and variations even among those Force-users who drew primarily on the Light or Dark sides—the polar ends of the Force.  So, he’d always known there was more to the Force than the Order was willing to admit.  Yet Shran probably hadn’t really had anyone to talk to about it, and now—

 

Now, Dean felt his appreciation for Shran swell and grow, as something that might be trust, blossomed in his chest.  The Jedi Master would help them.  Dean was sure of it.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 20:**

“Dean,” Cas said quietly, speaking just loud enough to get Dean’s attention.

 

Dean’s eyes blinked open groggily. “Yeah” he asked warily, finally able to put a little sound behind the syllables.  He hadn’t forgotten what Cas had gone looking for.  It hurt to speak, but already his lungs were feeling a little less water-logged, which suggested either the Bacta was being absorbed very quickly, or more time had passed than Dean had realized.

 

“I found an infuser and some synthblood, _and_ something to settle your stomach—at least I think that’s what these are,” Cas clarified as he held up the materials for Dean’s inspection.

 

Dean squinted, which caused the pain in his head to flare again—but not to the white-hot, dagger levels it had reached before.  Sure enough, the meds were exactly what Cas had thought.  The anti-nausea drug might even succeed in keeping Dean’s stomach contents—likely only Bactade, stomach acid, and a tad of clotted blood, at this point—stay put.  “Good,” he answered softly, foregoing a nod, but adding a smile.  He really was impressed with how quickly Cas had learned about modern medicine, or at least the Hunter version of it.

 

“They’re all sterile, and all packaged,” Cas reassured as he got to work attaching the infuser with the blood and the anti-nausea meds to Dean’s good arm.

 

Dean tried to relax again, relishing the soothing touch of Cas’s fingers on his skin as the lifted the sleeve of Dean’s tunic out of the way.  His eyes drifted slowly around the room as Cas worked.

 

It was as if Dean was seeing the hospital-like clinic for the first time—probably because now his concussion had healed enough, and his pain was well-managed enough that he could actually absorb what he was seeing.  It appeared to be a circular room, taking up the width of the level’s man corridor and extending beyond it to either side, with semicircular spaces.  The hall continued through the room towards the stairs in one direction and towards the distant turbolifts in the other. 

 

Secondary corridors branched off on either end of the clinic, and Dean could see tracks in the floor where doors could slide across either end of the room, blocking off the hall in either or both directions.  There were another set of tracks running along the central part of the room, at the same width of the hall, and Dean could see that walls could slide along either or both sides, closing off the rooms from the main hall itself.

 

There were several diagnostic beds and stations—no meddroids though—on each side, along with what appeared to be pretty well-stocked cupboards.  Dean couldn’t tell the age of the facilities from the décor.

 

“Was this here when you were here?” Dean asked slurring his words a little, and okay, that many words were still a little difficult even without the added wooziness created by the synthblood.

 

Cas looked up from where he was making a final adjustment on the anti-nausea dose.  “This room is part of the level’s original design, but the equipment is different.”

 

“Ah,” Dean answered, his eyes trailing from Cas’s hands to some materials he hadn’t noticed before.  “What’s that?” Dean croaked, warily casting his eyes in the direction of the supplies, which were piled at the end of his bed.

 

“Disinfectant, Bactane, and pressure bandages for your hand,” Cas repiled, squeezing Dean’s good arm before gingerly picking up his singed left hand from where it lay in Dean’s lap.

 

“That has to stay on me, after we leave here, after I’m back in touch with the Force,” Dean hedged, panting slightly both with the effort and—apprehension over what might happen.

 

Cas didn’t reply; just gently began pulling charred fabric free from Dean’s burns and dousing the skin liberally in a numbing disinfectant.  Dean felt his overall pain level drop as the throbbing, burning, hot-cold sensations in his hand eased.  “Cas, are they… safe, for me?” he asked, indicating the bandages.

 

Cas paused and looked up again, leaning in for another kiss.  “They are wrapped.  They are sterile.  They should be free from any Force impressions when I put them on.  I cannot make a guarantee, but I think they are safe, and I do not want to hurt you.”

 

“Okay, Cas, I trust you,” Dean sighed.  It’s just they were in a _clinic_ and who knew what trauma and pain the walls—and supplies—had been exposed to.  _If someone had held them long enough…_   He took a deep breath and steadied himself.  Then another thought that had been lurking in the back of his mind tumbled its way to the surface.  “Cas, I don’t wanna hurt you either,” Dean started quietly.

 

“I know that, Dean,” Cas reassured, moving on to generously dabbing Bactane on Dean’s hand. 

 

“If you try to heal me, it will drain you—it could _kill_ you—completely sap your force reserves,” Dean continued.  It was finally getting easier to breathe and talk.

 

“I plan to ask Master Shran to help,” Cas answered matter-of-factly.

 

Dean flinched reflexively at the suggestion.

 

“I have a plan,” Cas said to Dean’s unspoken inquiry.  He finished with the Bactane and began efficiently applying the pressure bandages to Dean’s hand, carefully removing them from the sterile wrappings and ensuring they touched _nothing_ other than his hands before touching Dean.

 

It hurt a little, the squeeze and tug of the bandages against his raw, charred skin, but it was nothing like the pain of before.

 

Dean let Cas’s assertion of a _plan_ tumble around in his head.  He should ask, but he trusted Cas… he knew Cas wouldn’t risk hurting him, he just worried Cas might be trying to protect him, and might allow _himself_ to be hurt to save Dean.  And Dean would _not_ be okay if anything happened to Cas.  Only, as Dean had observed not that long before, Cas wasn’t one to keep important bits of truth to himself.  Still, it concerned him.

 

Dean had decided to voice his fears, and was just opening his mouth to speak when the turbolift far down the hall ‘dinged’ and began to slide open.  _I hope that’s Shran_ , Dean thought, the sinking feeling in his chest telling him there was no way they were that lucky.

 

“Sithspit!” Cas muttered, or at least that’s what it sounded like… which couldn’t be right, ‘cause there was no way Cas would curse, only maybe this was just bad enough  to make him.

 

Dean tilted his head as far to the side as his still-injured, still-weak body and lingering concussion would allow.

 

Sure enough, three, four, five, six Jedi in long, grayish-brown robes had spilled from the turbolifts, their faces deep in concentration, pensive.

 

 _Probably wondering what the hell is going on with the Force_ , Dean realized.

 

The Jedi weren’t looking their way, and didn’t seem particularly nervous, anxious, or excited—emotions that even _Jedi_ tended to show hints of before going into battle or a hostile situation.  _So, not looking for escaped prisoners then; perhaps a routine patrol?  Maybe coming to feed the prisoners?_   Dean could have sworn his stomach showed half-hearted interest at the thought of food.  If there wasn’t so— _much_ —going on in Dean’s belly, he might actually be hungry.  He hadn’t exactly had a good relationship with food since _Sam_ —well really since he’d found out he was the Healer, maybe even earlier. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d…

 

Dean mentally shook himself.  His concentration was wondering, typical for him with a healing concussion, but really not okay right now.

 

Cas leaned into him, his hands stroking up Dean’s left arm from where they’d finished applying the pressure bandages; his fingers sure and knowing against Dean’s skin; his movements silent, protective, as he pulled Dean to his chest and turned, trying to put as much of himself between Dean and the Jedi as he could, which was not an easy feat considering the bulk of the diagnostic bed was between Cas and the direction of the lifts and Dean was _on_ the bed.

 

Their eyes met as Cas slipped further around Dean, while moving him, sliding him slowly off the bed towards the floor, where the ysalimir now lay and where the bed’s supports would likely give them a little protection.  Once again, they didn’t need the Force to communicate, a million thoughts passing between them with a single glance.

 

They could try to move quickly and hide, but without the Force, they had no chance—the open room wouldn’t offer any useful cover, not without altering it, moving the walls, which would draw the Jedi’s attention and likely bring the whole Temple down on their heads.  And they couldn’t slip from the Force bubble now, or at least Dean couldn’t, and Cas couldn’t heal Dean by himself, at least if he could, it would take too long and leave them both vulnerable, and Cas drained.  But Cas could—

 

Their eyes were locked in battle weighing the merits of whether Cas should slip the bubble or not.  He was unarmed (well he wouldn’t have any weapon but the force), and would be very outnumbered against the six Jedi who were here _right now_ , who almost definitely had lightsabers.  It might work, maybe Cas could hold them off, incapacitate them?  But neither he nor dean wanted to leave the other.

 

Dean was torn between wanting Cas to save himself—maybe hide and try to rescue Dean again later—and not wanting to go back to the bottomless terror of being cut off from the Force _and_ Cas, while facing a death that would likely bring oblivion for him and the end of the universe for everyone else.  Not to mention, there was no guarantee the Jedi would keep him in the Force bubble while they threw him back in his cell, and there were no guarantees that the six of them would know what to do when the Force started to tear Dean apart (not to mention the shock of all their Force echoes and emotions hitting Dean at once would be more than he could handle).

 

Dean was ready to suck it up, tell Cas to go because he couldn’t stand to see the man he loved harmed, when Cas squeezed his wrist _hard_ and mouthed, “No.”

 

And that was the moment the Jedi looked up and noticed they were there.

 

“Sithspit!” Dean muttered, an echo of Cas’s earlier sentiments.

 

The Jedi seemed to react in slow motion.  At first it was clear they didn’t register what they were seeing.  They just stood there, the group of them all with expressions spanning the range from surprise to confusion, their apparent leader, a short, light-skinned human man, looking particularly perplexed.  That didn’t last long, as one of the Jedi at the rear of the group, a tall Selonian female, seemed to recognize Dean and Cas and figured out what was going on.  She cried out, and the group sprang into action, immediately spreading out in the hallway in a battle formation.

 

Dean wasn’t sure if the Jedi were actually speaking to each other quietly or if they were communicating through the Force, but either way, they were clearly all on the same page, as the five Jedi in back snapped their blue and green lightsaber blades to life, gliding their weapons into an array of perfectly balanced guard positions, while the Jedi n front flicked his right hand out, tossing the wide sleeve of his robe back in the process, revealing a well-muscled forearm underneath.

 

“Oh, hell,” Dean groaned in anticipation of what was about to happen.  He and Cas reflexively squeezed towards each other.

 

The blue-and-orange-streaked pink charge of a stasis field shot forth from the Jedi’s hand and sped towards them, only to abruptly stop with a sizzling crackle as it intersected the spherical edge of the ysalimir’s bubble.

 

The collective look of shock on the Jedi’s faces was almost enough to make Dean burst out laughing.  And as the lead Jedi flicked his hand out again and again with the same result, Cas _did_ chuckle into Dean’s neck, as he curled tighter around Dean.

 

“Guess the _Council_ forgot to tell them about that minor detail,” Dean whispered, his eyes flicking to the oblivious-looking sessile lizard with its slow-blinking eye.

 

“Guess, so” Cas agreed, as the entire group of Jedi unleashed a combination of stasis fields and Force waves and—was that a lightning bolt?—at them.

 

Dean tried not to flinch as the vivid displays of Force energy shot towards them.  Even though he knew the Force wouldn’t penetrate the ysalimir’s bubble, the knowledge didn’t do much to diminish the effect of seeing multiple incredibly powerful and destructive displays of the Force come barreling towards him.

 

“I think they think we’re doing that, stopping their stunners,” Cas observed quietly.

 

Dean chuckled softly in amazement, but stilled when a sobering thought struck him.  “Yeah, but how long do you think it’s gonna take for one of them to figure out the ysalimir won’t stop a lightsaber blade?” Dean asked nervously.

 

No sooner had he spoken than the Jedi appeared to get the same idea themselves.  Dean knew they hadn’t heard him—not even with Force-enhanced hearing, not over the cacophonous roar their Force powers were making in the echoing hallway and room—so they must have come to the conclusion on their own.  The Force waves abruptly stopped, and the lead Jedi began hesitantly advancing toward them, his lightsaber now drawn and ready for attack.  The other five Jedi fluidly slid in behind their leader, advancing as one.

 

Dean shared a knowing glance with Cas.  They were screwed.  If they stayed, they’d be filleted.  If they ran…  They were back to the same dilemma.  Dean would die if he stepped outside the Force bubble alone right now, it wasn’t possible for Cas to heal Dean on his own _and_ defend them, and if Cas tried to defend them on his own, they’d be separated and if something happened to Cas, Dean was fucked, and the rest of the universe…  It was a no-win situation. 

 

Cas’s eyes were wide with worry and _fear_ like Dean had never seen before.  Something.  There had to be something after all, Cas had a _vision_.  There had to be some way for them to survive this!  Dean’s mind began racing a million miles and minute, speeding faster, it seemed, than even the _Dream_ could fly.  Think! Could Cas pull him and the ysalimir?  His eyes broke away from Cas’s and began flicking frantically around the room.  Could they make a hasty enough retreat, find some cover?  _Wait!_

 

“What?” Cas asked confused, and Dean realized he’d said that aloud.

 

Dean’s eyes flicked to the position of the Jedi, who were advancing somewhat slowly—probably fearing Dean and Cas might be able to throw up some physical barrier similar to how it appeared they had blocked their Force energy.  The Jedi were still in the hall proper and hadn’t yet crossed the threshold into the clinic proper. 

 

Dean had just noticed the control for the movable walls and doors, and he was almost certain that it was outside the ysalimir’s sphere of influence.  Judging by the average ysalimir bubble he’d encountered, _this_ bubble surrounded them and extended over to the northern curved wall of the clinic, but only encompassed about the center quarter—including, he was pretty sure, the section of supply cabinets where Cas had found the supplies to bandage and disinfect his burned arm; and then extended most of the way across the center of the room, but only about half-way to the far wall.  The controls were located on the eastern portion of the north curve, or on the part of the curved wall closest to the advancing Jedi, which meant it was definitely outside the ysalimir’s influence and could be touched with the Force.  There was no way they could physically reach it in time, but if Cas darted outside the Force bubble, flicked the switch, and dove back inside, he just might be able to close off the door to the hall leading to the turbolifts before the Jedi reached it.

 

Cas followed his eyes, “Dean, no,” he whispered, with a shake of his head.  “I’m not leaving you.” 

 

“You just need to be outside long enough to flip the switch with the Force.  Then you can come back and get me,” Dean urged, trying to put more confidence into his quiet voice than he felt.  “Come on, on three, we’re running out of time.”

 

Cas’s eyes darted around the room frantically, but apparently came to the same conclusion.  There was no other way.  This would be risky.  Cas could still get hit, the wall wouldn’t stop the Jedi for long, and it would block Dean and Cas off from the lifts, leaving the stairs as their only option for escape, but it was that, or wait a few more seconds and be cut down by the Jedi’s lightsabers.  “Okay,” Cas murmured at the same time Dean felt his body stiffen and shift, preparing to jump free of the Force-bubble.

 

“One,” Dean counted, “two…” at that moment, the turbolift opened again—neither Dean nor Cas, nor the Jedi, by the looks of it had heard the lift’s approach or seen the warning lights flicker.  As Dean’s lips formed around ‘three,’ a hooded figure holding a lightsaber jumped free from the lift and held out his hand—

 

—And a Force wave more powerful than Dean had seen before rolled through the hallway catching the six advancing Jedi by surprise and knocking them out cold.

 

Dean gasped aloud with surprise, and only then did he realize he recognized the lightsaber.  It was _his_.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 21:**

(meanwhile)

 

Shran moved through the Temple faster than he ever had before, it was as if the Force was pleading the urgency of the situation to him, beckoning him on, urging him forward, ever faster.  It had been a shock when he’d left the radius of the lizard’s influence and came back in contact with the Force.  Only a little over an hour before the Force had felt jagged, catching and tugging and pulling rather than flowing when he called it to him.  Now it felt frayed, broken, shattered—as if the life-giving energy was breaking down into a pile of dust and sharp fragments, hardened and brittle instead of soft and fluid.  Yet the Force seemed to welcome him back, as if the Force sensed his purpose; knew he was aiding the one who could _heal_ the Force.  And with that understanding, the Force called to him.

 

He should have been caught.  Someone should have stopped him or noticed his strange behavior or detected his unusual behavior in the Force.  After all, here he was, stepping out of the turbolift on the second highest level of the Tranquility Spire for the second time in less than two hours.  Before today, Shran hadn’t been up to the Hall of Knighthood in almost six _months_.  So, why had no one noticed this frantic second ascent? 

 

It could be his own paranoia and Jedi Shadow training talking—maybe Zachariah and Uriel just weren’t paying as close attention because they didn’t look at threats the same way he did?  But that seemed incongruous with their earlier accusations that Shran was being bamboozled and hoodwinked by the Sith-influenced Winchester and _Novak_.  It could be that the Force was just acting so oddly that no one noticed his movements, maybe all their focus was diverted to trying to figure out what was going on?  But that couldn’t be it because no one he had seen had seemed alarmed?  Shran had made it from the clinic on the Operations level in the First Knowledge Quarter all the way up to the top of the Ziggurat, across the roof to the base of the Tranquility spire and all the way up the turbolift and _no one_ had given him even a cursory glance.  No one had appeared particularly perturbed by the strange feel of the Force; instead, every person he passed had appeared engrossed in their daily routine.  The only person he’d encountered since this started—well, besides Winchester and Tiel—who seemed to realize what was happening, was the young Padawan Michael.

 

He looked up, stunned to find he was once again standing in front of Mary Campbell’s lightsaber—the _Aequitas Animae_ resting below his fingertips.  He felt a sharp _nudge_ from the Force, and let his fingers connect, the cool metal soothing him, calming and solid beneath his fingertips.  Yet underneath he could feel the Force’s energy, ready, waiting to flow through the lightsaber and channel its power through the focusing crystal… but _no_ , there was more.  The crystal itself was resonating with the Force, almost as if it were alive, the Force _always_ with it just like each individual being had its own thread of the Force sustaining it and giving it life.  The _Aequitas Animae_ ’s Force thrummed with warmth that radiated into his palm in stark contrast with the saber’s metal casing, it’s energy smooth and whole, almost as if it were an island in the storm that had wrecked the rest of the Force, protected and sheltered from degradation and deterioration.

 

At once, he felt its chastisement.  _Don’t ignore the Force_ , the lightsaber seemed to scold, and Shran could almost hear its voice in his head.  _Trust in it_ , it continued, as he felt its surge of _need_ to be reconnected with Dean, the Healer. 

 

Shran wasn’t really sure how that was possible, a semi-sentient, almost-living crystal housed inside a weapon of the Force.  Yet he knew just as surely it was true.  The blade was so much more than the lightsaber he carried, and yet it would only, _could_ only, perform it’s best for one individual—he could sense how it was attuned to Dean’s unique Force signature and bonded to his soul; an echo of the indigo river that was Dean’s Force presence etched into the lightsaber’s own Force presence.

 

As he closed his fingers tighter around the hilt and lifted, a sudden burst of light flashed before his eyes and a vision of the Force began to unfold before him.  It was as if the crystal had heard his question…

 

 _The members of the original Protectorate gathered in secret on the grassy planet of Dantoinee in the shadow of the Jedi Academy they hid among the crystal caves as the balance of the Force shifted beneath their feet.  Azazel had succeeded.  The Dark Lord of the Sith had lured the Jedi into his trap, and the best of the Order had fallen, committing the most heinous act of creating a Thought Bomb and trapping it within the Dark Side of the Force. The souls of Azazel’s followers were trapped and the Sith Lord himself had joined with the Dark Side of the Force, yet he was not gone for good.  The Protectorate knew he would one day return.  And when he did he would be stronger in the Dark Side than anyone before or after.  He would find his Chosen One, and together they would shift the balance of the Force permanently to the Dark Side, tearing the Force itself apart, and spreading death and destruction across the galaxy._

 _As the Protectorate meditated, the Force sent a vision and in it they saw the shape of things to come—the Chosen One, the Healer and the one who would lead the Wraith of the Sith Lord to his target—the Force revealed a way for the Protectorate to restore the balance.  One would need to mirror the Dark Lord’s path, into the Force returning later as a Guide for the Healer.  Others would need to leave the Order creating an unbroken chain of Markers, the signposts for the Chosen One, those who could lead him to the Runes that would allow him to change his Destiny.  Yet another, the Emissary would emerge from an unbroken line of historians, passing on the information and memories necessary to set the Healer, Guide, Hunter, and Chosen One in motion._

 _And then, a new_ understanding _had dawned on the Protectorate, blossoming bright in the Force and coalescing as if out of mist into a solid concept.  The Wraith would be called out of his dormancy by a Catalyst.  She would be a Jedi of extraordinary skill, trained in hunting the Dark Side, and she would lead the Wraith to the Chosen One.  But one member of the Protectorate, a young Padawan skilled in Force-sight, saw a twist—a connection.  The Catalyst was a focal point, inexorably linked to both the one who could destroy the Force and the only one who could mend it and restore its equilibrium—the Chosen One and the Healer would be her children.  It would be through their bond as siblings that the Healer could reach the Chosen One and succeed in healing the Force._

 _Yet, the Healer would need a weapon, more than a lightsaber, something that would resonate with the conduit of Force within.  Something that would carry the memories and awareness of the Protectorate to the time of the Prophecy so the Healer could_ see _in the Force, know when the Wraith made his move.  The Padawan turned her vision into a plan and the Protectorate had gathered deep within the crystal cave to put it to work._

 _They began with an ordinary green crystal placed upon the floor of the cavern as the Protectorate formed a circle around it.  Then, through the Force, together they reached out to the crystal, the members looking into their souls, into their connection of the Force, and transferring a thread of their being—awareness, Force power—into the crystal.  The process took many days, but to the Protectorate, time had no meaning.  They stayed immersed in the Force as it guided them, until at last, the crystal transformed, flickering with its own near-awareness, a solid presence in the Force capable of passing on both the Protectorate’s knowledge and messages from the Force itself._

 _As the crystal glowed with new life, the Padawan had stood and described another vision to the Protectorate—the Catalyst would use the crystal to construct a lightsaber, which she would give to the Healer, creating a sacred bond between the Healer and weapon and with it conveying some of her power to the Healer.  They would need a Mentor to guard the crystal, staying within the Order and watching for the Catalyst.  Each Mentor would need to train a successor so that when the Catalyst appeared, the Mentor could give her the crystal.  Perhaps the crystal would give the Healer enough of an edge to restore equilibrium to the Force._

The light flashed again, and the image of the young Padawan standing in a cave and speaking to a group of brown-robed Jedi seated in a circle surrounding the sparkling, almost glowing _Aequitas Animae_ disappeared.  He was back in the present, standing in one of the alcoves off of the Hall of Knighthood, Mary Campbell’s lightsaber clutched firmly in his grasp.  It was true.  Everything Tiel had said was—

 

 _Hurry!  Go now.  The Healer is in danger!_   An ethereal voice echoed in the back of Shran’s mind, snapping him from his musings and filling him with a deep sense of foreboding. 

 

He understood, at once, the _Aequitas Animae_ was speaking to him, relaying its impressions of the Force.  The urgency, the fear—it wasn’t just that Winchester was hurt, it was something else… nearer, more immediate.  _Shadows!_

 

Through the Force, Shran could see a group of six young Jedi Shadows swiftly approaching the Operations Level below the Detention Center.  The Temple wasn’t aware of Winchester and Tiel’s escape; these Jedi were simply making a routine patrol as commanded by Master Zachariah.  But if they exited the turbolifts on the Operations Level and saw Winchester and Tiel—

 

Shran didn’t hesitate to conclude that thought; instead he found himself running down the corridor and across the Hall, the Force speeding his steps.  He reached out with the Force to summon the turbolift and focused every bit of energy he had to spare on calling the lift faster, closer, so that as his feet padded onto the carpet in front of the bank of turbolifts, the door on the center lift opened with a faint chime.

 

Once inside, Master Shran pressed frantically at the control that would bring him back to the rooftop of the Ziggurat.  The sense of desperation and urgency he’d felt through the still-jagged, fragmented Force had left him shaken.  Although, he realized, the prodding coming through _Aequitas Animae_ was clearer and less frayed than the rest of his contact with the Force.  Now that the lift was moving, Shran felt almost paralyzed with indecision.  What should he do?  What was the best, fastest path?  If he started tearing around the temple, someone would notice, and—

 

 _Trust in the Force.  Let it lead the way_ , the voice said again. 

 

And Shran was pretty sure he felt some scolding in it, he realized, because if he had listened to the Force earlier, he would have had the lightsaber when he went to talk to Tiel, and Tiel and Winchester wouldn’t currently be stuck in a lizard’s Force-less bubble unawares as armed, trained Jedi approached.

 

 _Listen!_ the voice insisted, and Shran finally gave in.  Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly he submerged himself in the Force, letting go of the outside world.

 

The path was startlingly clear.  He was sure he had never moved so swiftly or stealthily before, but the Force was prodding and beckoning him on, showing him which turbolifts to take, where to exit, which corridor he could run down without being seen, when to dart into doorways, and when to sprint flat out.  He flipped up the hood of his cloak, at the Force’s prodding, enabling himself to blend more smoothly into the shadows, and shrunk his presence in the Force to the barest sliver. 

 

Without a clear sense of how he’d gotten there, Shran found himself in one of the main turbolifts for the First Knowledge Quarter—not the service lift that stopped on the Sith Containment level, but one of the ordinary ones that bypassed it, but stopped on the Operations Level.  As the level drew nearer, he could feel the urgency in the Force build. 

 

 _Hurry, hurry, no time_ …

 

The lift sped up, descending faster, although Shran didn’t recall reaching out with the Force.  Just as suddenly it decelerated, and the door opened, as it approached the Operations Level.  Not waiting for the lift to stop, Shran jumped out of the door, already knowing what he would see:  Six Jedi shadows advancing on the cowering shapes of Tiel and Winchester with lightsabers drawn.  The ysalimir might stop a Force attack, but it would make no difference to a lightsaber blade.  Without a moment to lose he raised his right hand, and let lose an enormous wave of Force energy.  It rolled and undulated down the corridor, catching the six Jedi unaware and knocking them flat onto the ground, their lightsabers retracting as they fell, unconscious.

 

Shran froze, panting, slowly coming back to himself, taking stock of what had happened.  He had _given himself over to the Force_.  That hadn’t ever happened before.  Well, sure he’d _felt_ the Force, opened himself to it, slipped into it’s currents and eddies so he could see the force-signatures and echoes of others around him, even done a pretty good job of letting it guide him, but he’d never _sublimated_ himself to it, surrendering his will and resistance and just letting go until he wasn’t sure where he left off and the Force began.  And here he was, standing in a corridor, right hand still raised from the Force wave he had just unleashed, hood over his head, his features shrouded in shadow, Mary Campbell’s—Dean Winchester’s—lightsaber clutched at his side, panting hard. 

 

 _It was trust, Gariq.  For the first time you_ trusted _the Force.  You didn’t try to bend it or mold it to your will, you listened.  Thank you_ , the voice in the back of his mind explained.

 

Someone let out a gasp at that moment, and Shran was shaken from his ruminations, his eyes focusing on the hall in front of him.  The six Jedi were still out cold, sprawled unceremoniously on the ground in a tangle of arms and legs and cloaks and disengaged lightsabers.  He could feel the jagged tug and snap of the Force again, but even through that, he could tell that the Jedi were largely unharmed… they would be unconscious for at least several minutes.

 

His eyes moved up to the source of the noise.  Winchester, _Dean_ —he found himself thinking about the young Force-user by his first name, perhaps it was at the _Aequitas Animae’s_ prompting—had gasped.  He and Tiel— _Cas_ —were crouching behind the bunk on which Tiel had been treating Winchester, hunkered down next to the twisted ysalimir frame.  They were frozen in a very awkward position; it looked like Winchester was trying to support himself, and Tiel was crouched—  Waiting to spring.  Shran’s eyes glanced around the room.  They were inside the lizard’s sphere of influence so he couldn’t sense their intentions through the Force, but Shran could see only one logical course of action.  If he’d gotten there a moment later, Tiel would have been exposed, outside the bubble trying to seal the hall doorway.  He could have been hit by one of the advancing Jedi or by Shran’s Force wave.  Shran had _trusted_ the force and he had arrived just in time.

 

“Shran?” Winchester asked, his voice sounding strangely rough, congested, yet somehow healthier than before. 

 

He wasn’t sure what had happened while he was gone, but he could see there were now only three Bacta syringes left, and Winchester’s burned right arm was now heavily bandaged.  It looked like they’d been busy.

 

“I retrieved your lightsaber,” Shran said, voice a surprisingly awkward and hesitant to his own ears, as he held out the lightsaber with his left hand.  He remembered his hood was still up, and snaked his right hand up, flipping it back so the fabric pooled around his shoulders.  No need to look like an imposing Jedi Shadow now… even if he had just melted into the shadows to return to the Operations Level…

 

 _You finally understand what your role is supposed to be_ , the voice prompted again, sounding strangely satisfied.  Shran could tell that it meant both his part in the shape of things to come and how a Jedi Shadow was supposed to act.  None of this storming around, flashing authority, control-hungry, high-and-mighty power play that Shran had been playing with increasing frequency over the years, but quiet, stealthy, almost unseen, _shadowing_ the forces of the Dark Side, keeping the balance in check.

 

“You came just in time…” Winchester said a little breathily, sounding both awed and relieved.

 

“Your… the…” Shran struggled to figure out how to explain what had happened.  “It spoke to me,” he settled on at last, “your lightsaber, or at least the crystal in it, it showed me how it was formed and explained the… _Protectorate_ … and who you are,” he nodded at Winchester, “and then prompted me here through the Force.  Told me I had to come now.”

 

“You had faith in the Force,” Tiel spoke, a hint of approval in his voice.  Shran watched silently as Tiel slipped back to a seated position, sliding himself under Winchester to support more of the boy’s weight.  Winchester seemed to relax—melt almost—back into Tiel, and unconscious showing of trust and comfort, that still left Shran taken aback.  He had heard of Jedi who were so in tune with their working partners and so deeply connected through the Force that it was as if they were of one mind—breathing, heart rate, bodies, perfectly in tune.  He’d even met a few Jedi like that and watched them in action, but this…  This was something different special.  Tiel and Winchester were both cut off from the Force at the moment, but their body language spoke of acute awareness of each other’s position and their reactions and gestures were instantaneous, trusting, any hesitation or reservation was absent.  They weren’t holding back.

 

 _That’s how they’re different_ , Shran realized, his own thoughts producing the conclusion this time.  _Jedi are always holding back, refraining for fear of—_   Shran paused.  What was it Jedi were afraid of?  Betrayal?  Loss of autonomy?  The Council’s ire?  None of those should be an issue.  Committing to one another the way Tiel and Winchester had would remove any risk of betrayal; he doubted there was any way they could hide their intentions from one another.  The loss of autonomy was potentially frightening, but giving into that fear only led to the Dark Side.  Winchester and Tiel had clearly gained so much through their connection. 

 

And as for the Council?  _Heh_!  Shran’s respect for the revered institution of Jedi leadership was waning.  He was beginning to understand that so much of their doctrine, of their rules and teachings, of their demands and expectations weren’t there because the Force required it or because it benefitted the Force, but rather because sometime somewhere down the line, some person had thought it was a good idea, and the idea had taken on more importance than the underlying principles that were supposed to guide them all.  The Force wasn’t an all powerful entity dictating to the Jedi what to do.  It was _life_ —the consciousness and energy and will of all the life in the universe struggling to survive.  The Will of the Force was the desire of life to protect itself, to propagate and survive, to find balance among all the competing, struggling individual needs and lives, and—and Dean Winchester was it’s conduit.  The balancing point.

 

“Um, I hate to break up your little revelation there, but I think we need to go now,” it was Winchester’s voice.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 22:**

 

Shran sprang back to focus, reaching out instinctively with his senses, but not _exposing_ so much of himself as he used to do.  He realized now it was something both Winchester and Tiel seemed to do—that was why their presence had felt so _small_ in the Council chambers when they’d first been brought to the Temple; why their trail was often so difficult to track.  “The Council knows something has happened, but they’re not sure what,” Shran said, relaying the information he took in, frustrated at how slowly it was coming thanks to the roughness of the Force.

 

 _Patience_ , the voice prompted.  Shran forced himself to relax, gave in further to the Force and breathed, the information flowing into him much more easily.

 

“They know that the team of Shadows was alarmed and now they aren’t responding, but they are not sure what happened.  They did not pick up on the focus of their alarm, or the number of Force powers they used, or my presence,” he snapped his eyes up, catching Winchester’s gaze and then Tiel’s and holding it.  “They have not sensed that the lizard has moved, so they do not realize you have escaped.”  His gaze darkened.  “But they are sending another team, and this one has reinforcements.”

 

“Let me guess, Masters Uriel and Zachariah are accompanying them,” Tiel said gruffly.

 

“Yes,” Shran nodded.  “But I have Winchester’s lightsaber, so perhaps we can go?”  He was uncertain what the next step was.  Presumably Tiel would need to heal Winchester, and to do that they would need to be somewhere protected, but they also needed to get out of _here_ really soon, and—

 

“Did you touch my lightsaber,” Winchester exclaimed, sounding suddenly alarmed.

 

Shran’s eyes snapped away from Tiel and refocused on Winchester, “Well yes,” he began.

 

“Of course you did,” Winchester responded, but Tiel realized the boy was talking to himself, his eyes distant, “otherwise it couldn’t have showed you the Protectorate, couldn’t have told you about me, or Mom, or Sam, or whatever else it told you…”  His voice trailed off as he looked to Tiel expectantly, eyes filled with concern and hope.

 

Shran really didn’t track what was going on.  Then again, he was still standing a significant distance away, so far that if not for the Force, he would probably have trouble making out Tiel’s and Winchester’s expressions.  He started down the corridor, approaching Winchester and Tiel and the lizard’s sphere of repelled Force.  And _huh_ , wasn’t that odd, but Shran realized that he could _see_ the edges of the bubble now.  He glanced around, yeah, he could see the traces of his own Force signature and the signatures of all six unconscious Jedi—he could tell exactly how many times they had touched the Force, which powers they had used, what a terrifying onslaught it would have been but for the protection of the lizard.  _I’m seeing Force signatures without slipping into a trance_ , he realized.  It must have something to do with trusting the Force, the new level of _openness_ and understanding he felt within.

 

“Cas, what am I gonna do?” Winchester was saying, his voice tight and nervous.  Perhaps if Winchester was outside the bubble Shran would understand what he meant.  “What’s up with you?”

 

Something in the tone caught Master Shran’s attention; he realized Winchester was addressing him, and brought his eyes back to focus _inside_ the now–hazily visible bubble.

 

“He is seeing the Force, but now, I believe, he does not have to slip into a trance.  Your crystal has opened the door for him; shown him the way,” Tiel replied his eyes tracking Shran’s movements as Shran drew nearer, carefully stepping over the prone bodies of the unconscious Jedi. 

 

“Yes,” Shran spoke, once again finding his voice, “they will not awaken for at least a few minutes,” he added, indicating the Jedi—and he could tell because something about their Force-signatures fluctuated with the depth of their unconsciousness, “but we really need to get out of here.”  He stopped just outside the bubble’s perimeter, turning his focus to Winchester, “Are you… is it safe to try to heal you now?  And is it a problem that I touched your lightsaber?”  He still couldn’t figure that one out.

 

Winchester let out a sigh.  “It needed to guide you, so, clearly it was a good thing you touched it… we’ll slay that krayt dragon when we come to it.”  He shifted against Tiel, who was still— _holding him_ —and gave a wry smile.  “You said you had a plan?”

 

Shran watched as Tiel turned his attention back to his lover, “I know how to heal you; I have a plan for that, but once we do… I am still uncertain how we will exit the building.”

 

Winchester smiled, “One thing at a time, if you can get me back in touch with the Force, then maybe I’ll think of something.”  He pulled himself up, body still moving stiffly, and pressed his lips to Tiel’s.  Winchester closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Tiel for a few breaths before speaking again.  “So, we really need Cas’s lightsaber and my utility belt,” he murmured giving Tiel another, chaste kiss and sitting up again.  Turning to Shran he said, “Do you know where they are?  Maybe we can try to plan our escape route so that they’re on our way?”

 

“I don’t know,” Shran said honestly, furrowing his brow, and stretching out again, tendrils of his consciousness sliding through the Force, sneaking out, unseen to scan the Temple, brushing against other Force presences, other _minds_ , as he moved.  _Ah yes_ , he thought realization dawning on him when he sensed Master Zachariah’s presence hurrying towards them, _from the direction of his quarters_.  Just like Shran had suspected!  “But I’m _almost_ certain Master Zachariah took your personal effects to his private quarters near the top of the in the Southwestern quarter of the Temple ziggurat—the High Council quarter—he has a safe there, and excellent security, but he’s also got a private shuttle that docks directly outside his quarters.  It would be a somewhat obvious means of escape,” he added.

 

Winchester seemed to ponder the information for a moment, his good left hand coming up to stroke at his chin.  “Master Shran, are you any good at projecting Force illusions?” he asked, stealing a glance towards Tiel, whose brow furrowed, then cleared, as he nodded in agreement.  Shran didn’t know what Winchester was getting at, but Tiel certainly approved of his plan.

 

“Uh, yes,” Shran replied, “but…” he started to protest, but realized there wasn’t the time; there would be plenty of time to ask questions once they got out of here and on the run, and everyone would be in touch with the Force so it would be much easier.  “Why do you need those items, anyway; it might be faster to try another means of escape, perhaps, through the Room of A Thousand Fountains?”

 

Winchester smiled again, which caused him to give a little cough which sounded very wet.  Winchester grimaced, but the cough cleared, and he continued.  “Well, the utility belt has all kinds of useful things on it, but it’s also got the beckon call for my ship, my comlink, and a special locator device that might just be absolutely necessary for the survival of the galaxy.”  His expression grew a little pinched, sad, at that last announcement, but Shran didn’t have time to inquire why before Winchester continued.  “Plus Cas is going to need a lightsaber, and the timetable we’re looking at… there’s not going to be time to build a new one.  Plus it’s _his_.  Stealing someone else’s isn’t going to be the same.”

 

Tiel nodded.  “Master Shran, I do have a plan to heal Dean, but I need to know one thing.”

 

“Anything,” Shran answered, feeling the Jedi drawing nearer.

 

“Can you reprogram the turbolifts; make it so the doors can’t be opened once we are inside?” Cas asked.

 

“Yes,” Shran answered with a nod.  He wasn’t entirely certain where Tiel was going with this, but at least he was fairly confident he could help.  “I can reach out with the Force to slow or speed their movement, and I can also override the standard programming, make it look like it’s moving when it’s not, put it in emergency lock down so it will take longer for someone from the outside to break in… although if Master Shran and Master Zachariah are determined, no doubt they will succeed in accessing it at some point.”

 

“Good,” Tiel replied.  He immediately turned back to Winchester.  “Dean, I need to get you some kind of gloves if I can, then we’re going to move.”

 

Shran watched the interplay, noticing how Winchester looked up uncertainly, but Tiel’s eyes seemed to reassure him, and he nodded.

 

“Master Shran,” Tiel said, this time not taking his eyes off of Winchester, “When you were searching for supplies earlier, did you notice any sterile gloves?”

 

Shran thought back, mind scanning the selection of supplied he’d looked through, he’d been hunting for Bacta, but—”Yes, I believe there were protective gloves in one of the center cabinets,” he pointed towards the top row of medical supply cabinets.

 

“Were they wrapped?” Tiel asked.

 

“Yes.”  Again, his tone was uncertain.  He didn’t really know why gloves were so important, but if Tiel needed it for this plan—which he still hadn’t shared—to work, then by all means Shran was willing to help.

 

“Please retrieve a pair of gloves.”  Tiel whipped his head towards Shran as Shran began to stride towards the cabinet.  “Do not remove the protective covering.  Then please pick up the ysalimir and its frame so that we can move Dean to the turbolifts.”  His eyes were pleading.

 

Shran nodded again and sprang into motion; the moment Tiel had finished speaking, he felt an attention-grabbing, near-desperate urge from the _Aequitas Animae_ , saying _go, must go now, Jedi coming, hurry!_ just before he stepped back in the lizard’s bubble, the sudden absence of the Force hitting him like a brick wall.  It was almost—dizzying, the sudden loss of the connection, the _sense_ he felt through the Force.  But then again, it highlighted how jagged and broken the Force outside felt because as soon as Shran was inside, he felt relief, as tension he didn’t know he had been carrying lifted and his body slowly uncramped.  Jedi coming or not, he was pretty sure they were close to out of time.  Well then, he’d just find those blasted surgical gloves quickly and worry about what this plan was once it was under way and hope for the sake of the Force that it worked.

 

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” he heard Winchester asking Tiel.  He didn’t hear a reply though, so he assumed Tiel either didn’t answer or, perhaps more likely, had shot Winchester one of those looks that seemed to convey more than words ever could, even without the benefit of the Force.  “Oh, bantha dung, you are,” Winchester murmured giving off a muted grunt. 

 

Shran glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Tiel had gathered Winchester into his arms, once again holding the boy with a sensitivity and concern Shran found disarming and unexpected, yet that also made Shran feel like he was missing something _profound_.  He turned back to the cabinet.  Where had those gloves been?  Ah, right there top shelf of the second cabinet to the left of the middle.  He reached in and pulled a pair out, slipping them into his left hand alongside Winchester’s lightsaber.  He closed the cabinet again, it’s electromagnetic catch sealing with a snap.

 

“Cas, for the record, you’re crazy,” Winchester said behind him.  He was pretty sure that was a note of admiration in Winchester’s voice.

 

“Ok, we need to go, the— _lightsaber_ —seems to think the Jedi will be here any moment,” Shran said as he turned back to face the escaping prisoners.  “Will these do?” he asked, holding up his left hand so the gloves were visible.

 

Winchester’s eyes flicked over the package, eyes seeming flinch as they noticed the lightsaber… Or rather Shran’s hand holding the lightsaber?  Shran wasn’t entirely sure, but there wasn’t time to linger on the question. 

 

“Should I give these to Tiel?” he asked as he stepped closer.

 

“Yeah,” Winchester whispered with a nod.  Then, turning his eyes to Tiel he added, “You’d better take the Bacta syringes just in case—any one of us might need them.” 

 

Tiel shared another long glance with Winchester before snapping his vivid blue eyes up to Master Shran.  “Can you put those in my robes along with the syringes?” he asked.

 

“Sure,” Shran agreed, scooping up the three remaining syringes from the end of the diagnostic bed.  There was an awkward moment where Tiel pushed himself to his feet, carefully balancing Winchester, who gave out a hiss of pain at the moment, but then Shran could see the pocket in Tiel’s robes, and he stepped closer, slipping them inside.  He wasn’t sure, but he thought Winchester flinched and pulled away from him as his hand brushed along Winchester’s leg.  He wasn’t sure though.  Maybe Winchester was afraid of him, not quite trusting that Shran was on his side?  Or maybe it was just the pain—Winchester probably didn’t want to get jostled.  Still, the behavior seemed a little baffling, and he as he pulled back and crouched down to pick up the bent ysalimir frame, he thought back to Winchester’s behavior in the Council chamber earlier.  He had seemed somewhat _standoffish_ then; Shran had assumed that was just frustration with being caught, but now he wasn’t sure what to make of it.  Could it be an ingrained fear and distrust of all Jedi?

 

“We need to go.” 

 

Tiel’s voice, blunt, impassioned, and straightforward as ever, pulled Shran from his musings once again.  He stood, lifting the frame with him.  “Just let me know what you need me to do.”

 

“Follow closely, when we get to the turbolifts, set the ysalimir down outside the lifts and call one,” Tiel explained.  He waited for Shran’s acknowledgment before setting off down the hall, carefully picking his way over the unconscious Jedi. 

 

It bothered Shran—as he stepped over the six prone figures—that he couldn’t sense how close to wakefulness they were.  He also thought he could hear voices filtering in from the stairway.  He knew it was probably his imagination or _paranoia_ because without the aid of the Force it would be very difficult to hear voices from that distance, not over the general hum and murmur of the level’s computers and machinery.  But ahead of him Tiel quickened his step, and Shran gladly matched the quickened pace.  They traversed the rest of the distance to the bank of turbolifts at a light jog.  Winchester didn’t grunt or cry out, just tucked himself into Tiel more snuggly, as if he could sense just how short on time they were and was holding his breath in nervous anticipation.

 

As they stepped up to the turbolifts, the lights and chime indicated a lift was approaching.  Shran flung the lizard to the ground, and slid into the wall as he reached for the control panel.  Frantically hitting the button that would summon a lift.  Much to their collective relief, the lift Shran had taken was still there, and the doors swished open with an understated ‘ding.’

 

He looked back and forth from the lift to Tiel and Winchester to the warning lights on the other approaching lift.  “I can try to stop that lift, but it will probably be here before I can override the controls,” he explained.  _Shit,_ he was pretty sure those _were_ voices approaching.  He must have imagined it before, because the staircase simply wasn’t long enough for someone to have been in or near it before and not yet be in the level, but now he was certain he could hear voices just outside the secure door.

 

“Can you access the controls from inside?” Tiel asked, sparing a glance over his shoulder before snapping his eyes back on Master Shran, their desperate intensity belying the calmness of his voice.

 

“Yes,” Shran answered.

 

“Good,” Tiel stepped around Shran and slipped into the waiting lift. 

 

Shran started to bend over, moving to pick up the lizard and its frame.

 

“Leave the ysalimir; hurry!” Tiel interjected.

 

Shran opened his mouth to protest; he couldn’t see the borders of the lizard’s bubble from inside, but he knew now exactly how big it was, and as soon as they moved a floor away— _oh_!  He straightened and darted inside, pressing the glowing blue control that forced the lift doors to close, and immediately depressed the hidden catch on the side of the dark blue-grey, brushed metal wall panel and flipped open the control plate, revealing a keypad sensor behind it.  As he frantically punched in his access code, he heard the adjacent lift chime and swish open.  The lizard’s presence would have them disoriented, but it wouldn’t last for long… and if they figured out what was going on or moved the lizard before Tiel was ready—at least the sight of their six missing Jedi lying on the floor would probably distract them.

 

Sure enough, he heard a startled shout, and pounding feet.  But who knew if everyone who had arrived in the lift had left?  _There_ , he thought with a sigh, as the lift’s computer accepted his access code, and a secondary display popped up, the previously dark, innocuous panel flashing to life and sliding out from just above the keypad in a smooth, graceful moment.  The panel showed the First Knowledge Quarter’s central turbolift bank—the bank of five turbolifts they were in, running down the center of the quarter, distinct from the core bank which ran along the centermost corner of the quarter, closest to the center of the Temple Ziggurat itself.  They were in the lift second-farthest from the Operations Level’s clinic.  The farthest lift was the service lift that had access to the Sith Containment Level.  The Jedi had arrived in the center lift, immediately to their right.  Shran’s fingers flew over the touch pad of the display, calling up their lift and then the door controls, and then punched in the security code necessary to lock the doors.  “The doors are locked,” he announced, “but I’m not sure how long that will hold them.  Once they figure out what I’ve done, anyone else with a level ten access code can get them open, and if they move the lizard…”

 

“Someone can pry them open with the Force,” Winchester finished his sentence.

 

Shran craned his neck over his shoulder.  Winchester had untucked himself from Tiel’s shoulder and looked more alert, straining forward slightly in Tiel’s arms, suppressing a grimace, eyes squinting.  “Do you have the lift controls and interior doors on a separate system from the lift call and report systems?” Winchester asked.

 

Shran did a double take, surprised at the question.  In the flurry of activity and focus on healing Winchester, he had forgotten the boy was known for his skill with electronics and slicing.  “Ye—yes,” Shran answered.

 

“Isolate the lockdown protocol from the outside system; then set the outbound reports to show the lift has already departed…” Winchester paused panting and, scrunching up his face.  “You said Master Zachariah’s quarters are up from here?”

 

“Yes, up and, and in a different quarter of the Temple,” Shran stammered. 

 

“Then make it look like this lift is going down,” Winchester paused as if he was considering something, “If you can, send one of the other lifts to another floor at the same time, or at least make it look on the outside like it’s moving.”

 

“That should confuse them a little,” Shran agreed, letting out a long breath and feeling slightly less lost for the first time since he’d headed up to the Hall of Knighthood to send that missive to Master Yoda.  His fingers flew over the controls isolating the lift they were in from the others, and telling the external system their lift was descending—it wouldn’t go far, since the Room of a Thousand Fountains took up the first seven levels of the quadrant, but it would send the Jedi scrambling and maybe buy them a little time. 

 

He then hit the touch-sensitive display until it brought up the controls for the service lift, which he sent to the top of the Ziggurat—with any luck the Jedi would see it moving and think they were headed to the docking pads that ran along the outer edges of the Ziggurat’s roof.  That was assuming the Jedi figured out who _they_ were—they would likely assume Winchester and/or Tiel had escaped, and since he’d sent the service lift away, it would take the Jedi at least a little longer to confirm their escape.  Whether or not they’d figure out Shran was involved, or more likely how _long_ it would take them, was an open question.  Sure, Masters Zachariah and Uriel were suspicious of him, but he doubted they’d think he’d help two prisoners escape.

 

Shran wasn’t sure how he felt about that—how quickly he had reconciled himself to his actions, how speedily he had begun thinking about _the Jedi_ as a group of others that didn’t include himself.  His time in contact with the _Aequitas Animae_ had helped, though, and at that moment he was relieved he had freed the lightsaber from its display; leaving such an important tool—embodiment—of the Force in a museum was a perversion of its purpose. 

 

Pushing his thoughts aside, he switched back to the controls for their lift, tripling the security on the lift’s locks and closing off the back doors the Jedi could use to try to force it open.  Control of the actual lift car itself was now only possible from the touchpad and display screen inside the lift.  With any luck, that would be good enough to buy them the time they needed for whatever it was Tiel had planned.  “Okay, the service lift is on its way to the top of the Ziggurat and this lift appears to be headed down to the top of the Room of a Thousand Fountains.  We’re locked down, and they can’t control this car from the outside.  Now what?” he asked turning around to face Tiel and Winchester.

 

“Thank you,” Tiel grunted.  Shran watched as Tiel and Winchester exchanged another wordless glance and Tiel began to lower them both to the ground, shifting and maneuvering until Winchester was laying crosswise in the lift, his head and shoulders supported on Tiel’s cross-legged lap.  Tiel was curled protectively around Winchester, his right hand stroking soothingly through the boy’s hair, while his left hand was resting on Winchester’s stomach.  He looked up at Shran, his voice deep with sincerity, concern, and a hint of fear.  “I need you to set the controls to take this car up, and then stop it, somewhere between floors—how far is up to you, but make it someplace that gives us a good opportunity to move undetected and head towards Master Zachariah’s headquarters.  If we can get there, I believe Dean has a plan that will let us escape.”

 

Shran had half a mind to ask how Tiel knew Winchester’s plan would work—from what he could tell Winchester had heard Master Zachariah’s quarters likely held their belongings and had a private shuttle and called it good without any thought for how obvious or easy-to-spot that would be as an escape plan—but he realized that Tiel was speaking on experience and _trust_.  He didn’t need to know the specifics to trust that Winchester’s idea would work.  For now, Shran would have to accept that and figure out how best to get them _to_ Master Zachariah’s quarters so Winchester’s plan could come to fruition.  He pondered, where— _oh, that could work…_   “I can take us to the floor just below the base of the archives.  It’s one of the levels used to house students, but it’s mostly occupied by Padawans who are on assignment with their Masters.  I can’t guarantee we’ll move undetected, but it’s not likely many people will be home or out and about in the halls.”

 

Tiel spared a glance at Winchester, who nodded in agreement.  “That will work,” Tiel said, his gaze narrowing and growing more intense.  “I need you to listen carefully if this is to work.  When the lift begins to move, we will slip out of the ysalimir’s bubble.  If what you said is true, and the core of the Sith Containment Level is outside the ysalimiri’s influence, once we’re clear of this bubble, we will be back in contact with the Force.  Are you experienced in healing?”

 

“Y—yes,” Shran answered; then feeling the need to qualify his answer, “I’m not a _healer_ but I definitely know the skill; I’ve had to heal myself and others in the field many times.”

“Well, this is probably going to be different from those times.  Until Dean heals the force, it will not be able to flow through you and I as easily as you are accustomed.  Meanwhile it will be tearing Dean apart from the inside.”  Tiel paused, his hand faltering in Winchester’s hair.  Shran watched as Winchester raised his uninjured right hand and wrapped it around the hand Tiel had laid on his belly, giving it a reassuring squeeze.  “Your help in healing Dean is imperative.  I do not have enough strength to heal him on my own.  However, it is imperative that you do not touch him—”

 

 _Wait—_ ”What?” Shran barked, hoping his voice wasn’t loud enough to attract attention from outside.

 

“Touch me instead.  I can channel your energy into Dean, and if I become injured, you can heal me directly.  Just—Do.  Not.  Touch.  Him.  Do you understand?” Tiel asked, his voice retaining that eerily calm, steely tone of command.

 

No, he didn’t _understand_ , not _why_ anyway, but that was beside the point.  Master Shran did understand what Tiel wanted him to do, and do that he would.  “Yes,” he answered with a note of surety.

 

Tiel and Winchester both visibly relaxed.  “Good, then program the lift, and as soon as we start to move, touch me.  Brace yourself; this will be rough.  If you—any of us need it, we have the three Bacta syringes.”

 

“Got it,” Shran acknowledged meeting first Tiel’s and then Winchester’s eyes.  He spun around, fingers flying over the controls.  “I’ll stop us half a floor short of the floor just below the Archives,” he confirmed, talking as he programmed.  “I’m also locking down the external doors on that level and the level below so it will be difficult for anyone to break in if they find out where we are.”  When their course was set, he paused, finger poised over the key that would activate the lift and set it moving.  “On three we’ll begin to move.”  He heard rustling behind him, and the telltale sound of meditative breathing, one of the basic exercises Jedi used to slip into a healing trance.  “One,” he started the breathing himself.  “Two,” he shuffled his feet so he had better footing to launch himself towards Tiel.  “Three,” his finger crossed the millimeter of air separating it from the glowing blue button and pressed.  The lift began upwards with a click as the beak clamps released and a whir as the repulsors surged to power, lifting them upwards.

 

Shran dove, dropping to the floor alongside Tiel and pressing his hands to Tiel—one hand on his shoulder, the other pressed to his back.  They were moving, slipping upwards and in a moment they would be outside—

 

The Force slammed into Shran as they glided up and out of the ysalimiri’s sphere of influence.  Briefly he felt the same exhilarating, eye-opening surge of awareness and connection, like taking a first deep breath after too long spent submerged under water.  Simultaneously, he sensed the fragmentation and brokenness of the Force.  In the last five minutes or so since had stepped back into the bubble, the Force had deteriorated further, it _hurt_ as he called it to him, opening himself up and drawing on the Force, pulling it to him, it felt as if the Force were made up of angular shards with sharp, knife-like edges, not the smooth, fluid river and ribbon of life he usually sensed.  It was strange though, because in his trance he could _see_ the Force around him, see how it flowed, how it broke and snapped, see his own Force-signature, and Tiel’s, and Winchester’s and—

 

Sensation of being dropped in acid, white knives like burning phosphorus boring into him, tugging and pulling rending and tearing him from within, the blunt force of a concussive wave, and the oxygen-stealing cold of liquid nitrogen pouring over and through his body—the feeling slammed into him and through him so fast and hard, Shran lost his bearings.  He was almost shaken free of the healing trance in his struggle to escape, breathe, exist outside the pain and agony. 

 

 _What’s happening?_   He wondered a few seconds after it started; his brain lagging behind.  It was difficult to think.  In his mind’s eye he saw the answer and _understood_.

 

Winchester was an indigo conduit, left empty, torn, and broken within; cracks only half-healed in his surface.  In the ysalimiri’s presence, the conduit was empty, like a pipe waiting to be filled.  But as they moved, the indigo river of the Force was starting to flow through him again, only it wasn’t smooth and fluid, liquid tendrils gliding along, as usual; this was jagged chunks and angular shards, elastane bands that snapped and sprang outwards, all of them careening and bunching together slamming hard into the borders of the conduit, breaking it and cutting it further, as if trying to burst it open from the inside and fly off into oblivion.  The conduit was taking heavy damage, but still it held.  And as the Force moved through it, the Force was comforted, smoothed, kneaded and melted and stitched back together—sharp angles rounding, broken shards strengthening, snapped tendrils melding back together, until finally it was smooth, whole, and fluid.  The Force that emerged from the other side of the conduit was repaired, renewed.  It looked like the Force was supposed to look. 

 

For a few moments, the conduit seemed to be smoothing the Force quickly, healthy cohesive Force flowing out as quickly as the broken, jumbled mess tumbled in, but then it slowed, and Shran noticed what was happening.  The conduit was fracturing, cracks appearing through out, so that it flickered and sputtered, bits of the Force leaking out of it before the conduit had mended them.  Chunks pressing together creating log jams and punching bigger holes in the conduit with their Force.  It was terrible to see—Shran wanted to reach out and press the cracks closed, plug the holes, glue the conduit back together so that it could heal the Force—

 

 _That’s Winchester… that’s Dean_ , his mind finally realized.  He was mentally staring in awe, frozen by pain and dumbfounded with wonder, and all the while Dean Winchester’s life was pouring out as the Force tore him apart.  It was so very literal.  With the Force this damaged, Winchester could either heal the Force or heal himself, and if he healed himself, the Force would tear apart on its own and there would be nothing _to_ fix.  Suddenly Shran wondered if Tiel, and he would be enough.  He shuddered to think what would have happened if Winchester had been yanked out of the ysalimir bubble before he had healed somewhat.  The Force was _life_ , how could life destroy a living, sentient being so brutally and efficiently?

 

Shran sunk deeper into his trance, the entire process of realization and revelation having taken only a few seconds.  He pulled more Force to him, finding it was already coming a little more easily probably thanks to Winchester’s… healing, his sacrifice.  Shran reached out, sensing Tiel’s presence next to him.  Tiel was pouring all of his energy into Winchester, struggling to keep up with the injuries as they appeared.  His energy was already draining fast.  Shran pushed out, slipping sideways in the Force the way the _Aequitas Animae_ had showed him.  It was easier than he was accustomed, even with the damage to the Force, opening himself to it like this, matching the way it flowed, orienting himself, it was much easier to pour the Force out of him and into Tiel, healing both Tiel and Winchester. 

 

It was a long struggle.  Through the trance he could distantly hear Winchester’s moans and cries of pain.  His voice raw and anguished.  There was the sound of ragged gasping and wet, bubbling coughs accompanied by the metallic tang of blood, and the sickening sound of wet blood hitting the lift floor.  He stretched and pulled and willed the Force too him, opening himself more and more, until he wasn’t sure he _was_ anymore—Shran felt spread thin and expanded, as if he were spilling out all over the place.  His awareness blown up so that he was inside the lift and outside in the Temple, inside Winchester, knitting together the broken blood vessels and tearing tissues, in Tiel, giving his strength.  And finally, slowly but surely, he could feel the Force flowing from him begin to knit Winchester back together—torn capillaries closing, flesh regenerating, new cells living. 

 

As Winchester began to heal, the Force began to heal anew.  The conduit regaining strength and integrity, smoothing and pressing the bits of Force back together, siphoning off the fragments damaged beyond repair, spurring their growth and regeneration like Bacta flowing into a festering wound and knitting it back together while eradicating the infection. 

 

The Force flowed and it flowed, and it flowed out of Shran until he felt drained; emptied.  _He_ was pouring out, loosing containment, oozing into a puddle on the floor or perhaps fading away, because he had nothing left to give.  His trance broke with a snap, and he collapsed back into himself, his eyes rolling once, but not really seeing as he faded into black.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 23:**

 

When Master Shran came to, Dean Winchester was hovering over him and the lift had stopped.  Shran’s eyes blinked in surprise, because one, Winchester was touching him, his hand against Shran’s face, and that surprised him.  The way Winchester had seemed to flinch away from any contact with anyone other than Tiel and had made a big deal out of needing gloves had led Shran to believe the boy had a problem with touching people. Also, _huh_ , Winchester looked a lot less… _dying_ … and more alive than he’d seemed before.  Gone was the sickly pallor and clammy sweatiness that had plagued his skin.  He was still pale, but his cheeks actually held a little color, and his eyes—which were looking down at Shran, but not meeting his eyes directly—looked clear and vivid, all-seeing hazel-green that seemed to sparkle in the cool, blue light of the lift.  Winchester’s _left_ hand was resting on his face; once Shran’s eyes focused, he could still see some pinkness on the wrist and arm peeking out around the bandages, on the whole the edges of burns looked significantly healed—maybe a week or more old, not angry and fresh—but topical Bacta treatments couldn’t heal that fast.

 

It was all so disorienting.  Hadn’t _Shran_ been flying apart?  Melting into the Force?  The Force felt so—smooth and whole.  He could feel the Force flowing through the conduit, Dean, Winchester, and into him, healing him, but it was soothing and _natural_ ; there was no strain behind it no… manipulation like he’d sensed on occasions when Jedi healers had treated his injuries.  Instead he felt a warm glow of life.

 

“Dean,” Tiel’s voice prompted from somewhere outside Shran’s narrow line of sight.

 

“What?” Winchester asked, his tone quiet and distracted; then, “uh, _oh_!” as Winchester’s hands flew off of him, and Winchester fell backwards as if he’d been shocked, his hands flowing up to press at his temples as shook, almost convulsing, for several seconds until he finally stilled and curled up in a ball.  “Sithspit, Cas,” Winchester croaked out, his breath sounding ragged, “next time gimme a little more warning.  _Fuck!_ ”

 

“He regained consciousness very quickly Dean, I did not delay in telling you; there was no warning to give,” Tiel said with a hint of amusement and— _fondness_ —clearly directed at Winchester.  The tone was more relaxed and less serious than Shran had heard his voice.  Shran realized they were talking about him, but he took no offense.

 

 _Wait_.  Hadn’t _he_ just been healing _Winchester_?

 

“Welcome back, Master Shran,” Tiel said, sensing his question.

 

 _Ah, right, back in contact with the Force and we_ can _sense each other_ , Shran realized.  However, he wasn’t too eager to start reaching out and poking around.  He was happy to just lie there for a minute getting his bearings, relishing the feel of the Force flowing through him instead of poking and stabbing him apart.

 

“What, what happened?” Shran asked at last, testing his joints, and pulling himself gradually to a seated position.  He looked to his left and saw Tiel sitting cross-legged, but now leaning back against the wall of the lift.

 

“You almost died; you drained yourself healing Dean, and me.  Thank you,” Tiel said with deep and genuine sincerity.  “I was drained, and nearly died as well, but together we managed to heal Dean enough that he recovered, and regained enough strength to resume healing himself, and us.”

 

Shran nodded, “Thanks,” he murmured.  Only, there was something more… the taste of _Bacta_ on his breath, and a sore spot on his stomach.

 

“Dean gave us both a shot of Bacta,” Tiel supplied, answering Shran’s unspoken question.  “I quickly recovered, but you were not responding fast enough.  I suggested we give you the third injection, but Dean pointed out we should save that in case of an emergency, and offered to heal you instead.”  Tiel’s eyes trailed lovingly over to Winchester, who had now rolled up so he was sitting with his back to the front wall, knees tucked up against his chest looking a little sheepish.

 

Shran got the feeling he was once again missing something.  Now that they were back in touch with the Force, he was aware of Winchester and Tiel as entities in the Force—or rather more like one big entity, their sense of self and person, emotions, and thoughts stretching between them.  It was a connection more complete and _open_ than any he’d seen before.  Shran could have intruded, gone poking, skimming, and tried to figure out what was going on, but that would be rude; invasive.  More so, he was pretty sure he’d be helplessly, hopelessly lost in the sheer volume of information flowing between them.  So, he brushed it aside and opted for the more tactful route.

 

“Thanks,” Shran said with genuine appreciation, reaching over towards Winchester to shake his hand.

 

Instead of accepting it, Winchester flinched, and scrambled backwards against the wall, as if trying to tuck himself into it.  “Cas? Can I get those gloves now, please?”

 

Shran felt totally lost and a little hurt.  He had just helped _save Winchester’s life_ after all.  Then again, Winchester had just saved every life, everywhere by healing the Force, so Shran really couldn’t hold a grudge.

 

Behind Shran, Tiel chuckled, his robes rustling around him as he stood and stepped over Shran before sliding to the floor next to Winchester.  “Dean’s psychometric,” he offered.

 

 _Psychometric, what does that mean again?_ Shran thought, his mind scanning the lessons and terminology of his early instruction at the Temple.

 

“It means I sense Force impressions through touch,” Winchester supplied.  “Memories, emotions, information—if I _touch_ someone or something I can pick it up.  It’s an involuntary Force ability.  I can control it somewhat, but I can’t _block_ it, not completely.”

 

“Oh,” Shran said, sounding a little stupid as he took it all in. 

 

“The stronger the memory or emotion, the harder it is to block.  Really strong Force impressions I can pick up from inanimate objects—I touched a bar stool once, and it totally knocked me out,” Winchester added with a wry chuckle. 

 

Beside him, Tiel was fiddling with the packaging on the surgical gloves, tearing them open with his teeth and then carefully reaching inside, making sure the gloves didn’t brush the outside of the packaging or anything else, their only contact was with Tiel’s hands.

 

“I can pick up emotions and memories off of ordinary people, but Force-sensitives are much stronger and harder to block, and _Jedi_ ,” he snorted, “or anyone trained in the Force; I pretty much can’t block it.  It’s easier if I’m prepared, I can,” he waived his uninjured hand away to the side, “deflect it, absorb it more easily.  But if I’m not expecting it—it more or less knocks me on my ass.  If I’m lucky, I stay conscious.”

 

“Gloves help,” Tiel explained, as he helped Dean slip into first the right glove, and then _carefully_ , the left, easing the stretchy synthetic material over the bandages.  “Those okay?” he asked Winchester.

 

“Yeah,” Winchester nodded, sliding closer to Tiel, and leaning against him, “thanks.”

 

Tiel pressed a chaste kiss to Dean’s temple, and turned his attention back to Shran.  “Without direct contact with Dean’s skin, there’s not a problem.  However, for healing, skin-to-skin contact is more efficient—the direct sense Dean gets off of an individual actually improves his ability to heal—it informs him about an individual’s injuries, guides his healing.  But it comes with a cost, if the patient is conscious, Dean has to put extra energy into his mental blocks, or the psychometric transference can overwhelm him.  You were unconscious when he began healing you, so there was very little transference.”

 

“Until I woke up,” Shran supplied, understanding dawning on him.  “You didn’t have time to warn him, and Winchester couldn’t block me out.”

 

Tiel and Winchester both nodded. 

 

“Call me Dean,” Winchester, _Dean_ , said, “but yeah, that’s what happened.”

 

“Please, call me Cas,” Tiel— _Cas_ , added, extending his hand to Shran.

 

Shran shook it, giving both men a small smile.  “If you don’t mind my asking, what did you—” he wasn’t sure how to put it.

 

“Feel?  See?” Dean asked rhetorically, “I got a reflection of your impression of healing _me_ along with your own elation and surprise at being healed.”  Dean gave another wry chuckle and shook his head.  “Nice visual there, seeing myself as a big purple-blue pipe.  I’m not going to forget that any time soon.”  He smiled.  “Honestly though, that’s a really nifty power you’ve got there, the way you see things.  And, thank you.”  Dean extended his now-gloved hand, and Shran took it, shaking a little hesitantly.

 

“The gloves really do work?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” Dean answered, settling back down next to Cas.

 

“Um, so how come you two can touch?” Shran asked, realizing how stupid and invasive that sounded the moment the words had left his lips.  He could feel the heat rising to his face as his dark skin flushed with embarrassment.

 

“The connection between us, both as Healer and Guide and as… partners—” Tiel started.

 

“—and lovers,” Dean added, picking up the thread of the sentence, “we share everything through it.  Touching Cas is kind of like touching an extension of myself.  There’s no psychometric transference, because I can already feel everything he feels.”

 

Tiel nodded in agreement. 

 

“Oh,” Shran said, “I figured it had to be something like that, but… I’m just… the Jedi don’t.”  He sighed.  “Relationships are frowned upon, so I’ve never met anyone as—connected as you two.”

 

“We understand,” Dean answered. 

 

There was silence in the turbolift for a few moments. 

 

“How about sleeping?” Shran asked at last.  “I mean, your face has to touch something…”

 

“Do not ever put anything on our bunk,” Cas said, the threat in his voice only half-playful. 

 

Shran got the point.  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he acknowledged still a little surprised at the frank honesty of the two men sharing one bunk, wondering idly if in the course of this escape, avoiding contact with Dean’s bunk would be something he’d have the occasion to worry about.  “So, now what?”

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 24:**

 

Master Shran’s question hung in the air, rekindling the sense of urgency.  Dean knew how tense their situation still was.  Sure, the Force would aid in their escape and among the three of them they had an array of unusual abilities the Jedi would be hard pressed to anticipate—now that he was back in touch with the Force and the Force was no longer falling to splinters and shreds, Dean had gleaned that most Jedi, even most Jedi Shadows, weren’t aware of Master Shran’s ability to fingerprint Force abilities.  The Council knew, but they were about it, and Dean was pretty sure based on his earlier interactions that the two rogue Councilmembers didn’t understand Master Shran’s ability very well; instead they’d added it to their list of things to be feared.

 

But unexpected talents aside, the odds were stacked against them.  It was times like this Dean wished he was from Corellia and not Dantooine, for maybe he’d be able to brush aside the odds without a second thought.  As it stood now, potentially the entire Temple was arrayed against them—the central stronghold of the Jedi.  They were near the center of the building with a long way to go in any direction to reach the outside, and even if they did, the Temple was built on top of and around a natural mountain spire that jutted high above the skyline of Coruscant’s global city.  Unless they used the grand causeway at leading to the Temple’s front entrance or left on a shuttle, they would be skydiving with only the Force to slow their descent.  Even if Dean had his grappling belt there was no way it could help them.  The Ziggurat of the temple itself was nearly a kilometer tall, and it stood another kilometer above the majority of the cityscape.  He simply didn’t have that much wire.

 

That was the other issue.  They needed their belongings.  Even if Cas could make do without a lightsaber, it would be incredibly difficult to get back to Chevy and the _Dream_ without the beckon call and the comlink.  But if they had any hope of finding Sam—if _Dean’s_ dream was going to have a chance of playing out, they needed the tracking beacon.  That meant they had to go to Master Zachariah’s quarters.

 

Dean was pretty sure breaking in wouldn’t be a problem.  And if Shran really could pull off a Force projection, escape wouldn’t be too difficult either, as long as Master Zachariah’s shuttle was docked outside his quarters.

 

No, it was the _getting from here to there_ that had Dean worried.  But he had a plan, and the time to act was now.  First things first, he needed to reacquaint himself with his lightsaber. 

 

As he thought it, he felt Cas through the connection; he was worried about Dean taking another hit of psychometric transference so soon after the last and while he was still healing.

 

Dean breathed, feeling the Force in him, willing it into the still-healing places in his lungs, smoothing out the kinks and rough patches as the Force flowed through him, and then channeling it into mending torn capillaries in his abdomen.   _Shran needed to touch the lightsaber—it called to him.  I don’t know what will happen, but I have a feeling it will be okay.  This was supposed to be; the Force was showing Shran our past._

 

 _Are you sure?_ Cas asked, even as his hands were fumbling in his robes, slipping the lightsaber out of his pocket.

 

 _Yes_ , Dean said, his fingers twitching with the need to touch it, make it an extension of him again.

 

 _You just put the gloves on…_  

 

Dean couldn’t suppress his chuckle; the whine in Cas’s voice—something Dean had only ever heard directed towards him—was evident even though the words were not spoken aloud.  _Give it here_ , he coaxed peeling his right glove off and holding it carefully in his left hand.

 

Tentatively, Cas placed the hilt of the lightsaber on Dean’s upturned palm as Dean closed his fingers around it.  Much to his surprise he wasn’t hit with a jolt of unfamiliar memories or unpleasant emotional backlash, but instead the familiarity of the weapon, the connection, his mother’s memories, his own… it all washed over him like a soothing, comforting rain.  There were new feelings there and new—memories, experiences—but only a little of it was from Shran, and that wasn’t overwhelming or negative or violent.  Once it was clear he wasn’t going to suffer any negative consequences from the transference he let out the breath he’d been holding and relaxed, willingly integrating the new information.

 

Instead, it was as if Master Shran had _unlocked_ the memories of the crystal at the blade’s core.  Dean was now seeing the early meetings of the Protectorate, the formation of the crystal, and… it was almost like watching his own conception.  Five thousand years ago a bunch of Force-sensitive outcasts much like himself had gathered together and looked into the future, setting in motion a chain of events that would inevitably produce Dean.  They had given themselves into forging the crystal, imbuing it with their life-force, knowing someday it would belong to Mary and she would bestow it upon Dean, giving him an extra edge that just might make all the difference. 

 

The knowledge was transformative.  Somehow, all this time he had doubted if he could really be the Healer.  He _knew_ that he was deep down, just as he _knew_ that Cas was meant for him and that together they were a more complete person than either was apart.  But there had always been an element of uncertainty—was he a disappointment?  What would the lofty Protectorate think if they knew how late he had realized he could touch the Force channeling through him?  Now he knew.  The Protectorate wasn’t lofty; they were a lot more like Hunters than Jedi—meeting in hiding and tending to the neglected areas of the Force.  They had known so much about him—how he would be related to the _Catalyst_ , his mind stumbled over the word, and the Chosen One; what hurdles he would face; that he would exist…  They made the _Aequitas Animae_ for him, even though they could never have imagined how different lightsabers would be by the time he got to use it.  They had known; the Force had told them what would work.

 

Reluctantly, Dean pulled himself out of his reflection and carefully slipped his glove back on, tying the lightsaber to his tunic with more of the torn fabric along its base.  It wasn’t ideal, but it would do in a pinch until he got his utility belt back.  He mentally groaned at the thought of Master Zachariah’s hands all over his personal items.  Maybe he’d learn something useful from what ever psychological baggage the Councilmember had transferred to Dean’s possessions.  There were a lot of other unpleasant issues to address… like why the Force had gotten so out-of-balance so quickly, but now was not the time.  Not yet.  First, they had to get underway.

 

He noticed the awkward silence that had fallen over the turbolift car.  Dean let his eyes play around the confined space.  Two used Bacta syringes were discarded on the floor.  The third unused syringe was peeking out of Cas’s pocket.  The floor of the lift, once covered with a soothing, blue carpet, was now stained with blood and vomit, some of it still pooled on the surface.  Dean looked down at himself.  His clothes were a mess.  If they ran into anyone, he’d need to run a force projection just to keep them from sounding the alarm at his appearance.  His tunic reeked of sweat and blood and a little vomit—he’d been unsuccessful in _not_ puking on himself—and was covered with large, ominous brown stains.  His boots were scuffed, and of course one was missing its strap and buckle, and his pants were dirty and torn, smeared with grease from moving the sink fixtures and toilet.  Dean’s right arm was significantly more healed, but there was still shiny, angry pink sticking out around the edges of his bandages.  He couldn’t see his reflection in the brushed surfaces of the lift’s interior, but he could imagine his face and head were equally frightening, with dried blood and tears streaked around them regularly. 

 

Neither Cas nor Shran looked much better.  Shran looked a little wan, with blood on his robes where he’d coughed on himself.  He had circles under his eyes that hadn’t been there before he’d helped Dean.  Cas was physically in better shape—although Dean was _still_ worried that Cas had refused the Bacta injection.  He could _feel_ that Cas was okay, but he was concerned that his lover would wear himself out.  Cas’s clothes were similarly stained, although most of the blood on them was Dean’s.  There was no practical way to clean them or the lift car, and as soon as they left, it wouldn’t take long for the Jedi to figure out they’d been in the lift and they were injured. 

 

Accepting the situation and moving on, Dean cleared his throat, drawing on non-existent energy reserves to explain his plan, hoping that he could pull off another miracle.  “Master Shran,” he said, drawing the Jedi’s attention, “Can you open the emergency access hatch at the top of the car?”

 

Shran startled. “Yes,” he added with a nod once he got over his momentary shock.  Dean wasn’t sure if it Shran was reacting to the change in Dean’s demeanor or the breaking of the silence or what.  He did tend to channel a good deal of Cas’s brusqueness through their connection.  It might be that _Dean-with-Cas_ was sufficiently dissimilar to Dean injured and alone that Shran was confused, but now was not the time for such musings.

 

“Then please open it,” Dean responded. “We’re going to climb on top of the car, and exit through the lift doors on the next level.”  If they were indeed between floors like Cas had instructed, then climbing out should be relatively easy.

 

“Ok,” Shran answered looking rather awkward, like now that the Force was healed he was starting to doubt helping them again; but Shran’s hesitance didn’t last long, and he collected himself quickly, climbing to slightly wobbly legs and returning to the turbolift’s access panel and got to work.  “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s the plan?”

 

“This level should be mostly deserted, right?” Dean asked.

 

Shran gave a grunt of affirmation as he concentrated on the panel.

 

Dean shared a glance with Cas, asking for permission—if the plan was going to work, they needed to trust Master Shran, and while he could sense Cas’s agreement through their bond, he found visual affirmation more comforting.  Receiving Cas’s nod, Dean continued, laying out the plan he had concocted in a Bacta and pain-filled haze off of schematics and blueprints he remembered looking at on the _Dream’s_ computer.  As he spoke, he visualized the plan, mentally walking through it.  Along the way Cas brought up suggestions and questions through the Force that helped Dean to refine his approach.

 

They would exit on the dormitory level and cross to the core turbolifts—the bank of lifts at the center of the Temple traversing the space the four quarters of the Ziggurat met—with the best combination of stealth and alacrity possible.  Master Shran would take point, guiding them, since he knew the current idiosyncrasies of the Temple better than Dean or Cas, while Cas flanked him, reaching out in the Force with his senses and gathering information for threats coming from ahead.  Dean would act as a rear guard, training his senses in the Force to their rear and defending against any threats coming up behind them.  There was also a defensive advantage to their formation, since Dean and Shran currently had lightsabers and Cas did not.  If they were attacked, Cas could slide in between them and attack or defend with the Force while Dean and Shran deflected anything incoming with their lightsabers.  Of course there were _other_ benefits to the arrangement, but Dean didn’t quite trust Shran enough to share them, not yet.  He’d probably figure out soon enough. 

 

When they reached the lifts, assuming they managed to get that far without attracting too much attention, Shran would open the hatch that led to one of the droid maintenance shafts that ran in between the lifts.  The space was narrow and dark and had no ladders or handholds—a perfect nightmare for Dean’s claustrophobia—but they should be able to either levitate up it, or spider-climb the inside walls.  Once inside with the hatch closed behind them, they would be difficult to spot.  If one of the Jedi picked up on their movements, it would be difficult to tell that they weren’t instead climbing one of the turbolift shafts.  So, any search for the three fugitives would be considerably delayed.  They’d take the shaft up to the second-highest level of the Temple Ziggurat and exit into the southwestern quarter, which provided the base for the Jedi High Council tower.  From there, it should be a jog down a few short hallways and they would reach the expansive quarters of Master Zachariah.  Dean didn’t elaborate on his plan from that point out, because exactly what he did would depend on what they found.  Shran got the panel and outer doors open and they were on their way.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 25:**

 

About fifteen minutes had passed since they’d finally climbed out of the lift and to freedom.  Dean wasn’t sure of the exact timing, but he figured about forty minutes had elapsed since they’d fled from the Operations level in the nick of time.  So far, they hadn’t encountered anyone, but Dean wasn’t very confident their luck would hold.  He could feel the tension building in the Temple.  It was radiating off of every being, resonating in the Force—so much confusion and intrigue Dean had to struggle not to get lost in the rising flood. 

 

Not everyone—make that _most_ of the Temple’s inhabitants—were aware the two suspected “Sith” had escaped.  A good deal of people didn’t know that Dean and Cas had ever been brought to the Temple or locked in its Sith Containment level.  Even fewer knew that Shran was helping them or _suspected_ of helping them.  But everyone from the greenest youngling to the most experienced master—even Zachariah and Uriel, although they wouldn’t likely admit it—had felt the _wrongness_ in the Force.  As the Force had fragmented more and more, it had captured their attention, distracting them from training, meditation, waking them from dreams.  They’d also felt it change—suddenly, rapidly.  It had taken Dean only a bare handful of minutes to weave the threads back together, focus the stream, and redirect the current of the Force so that it flowed smoothly once more.

 

Now the Jedi were alert, and the Force was teeming with their energy.  Some had raised alarm about the downed team of Jedi.  Others had figured out it tied to a prisoner escape.  A handful were genuinely fearful that Sith were running loose in the Temple.  Master Zachariah was as mad as a heard of stampeding Banthas.  Uriel was plotting.  And everyone else was picking up on the swirl of negative emotions that cast a pall over the temple and wondering what was going on.  Anyone they encountered was likely to put two and two together and that—that could turn ugly really fast.  ‘Cause the Jedi weren’t their enemies. 

 

As much as Dean hated the Order’s policies, their wrongheaded refusal to open themselves to the Force and learn what was going on, their steadfast refusal to acknowledge the Lost Prophecy, they weren’t the enemy; they didn’t want the Force destroyed, and if they realized what was happening, they would want to stop Darth Azazel too.  Zachariah and Uriel were valid targets—in Dean’s mind anyway—they knew the facts, had seen the evidence, and still they decided to put Dean and Cas and the entire _universe_ in danger because they wouldn’t listen.  If it came down to it, Dean would feel sadness, but no guilt if he his weary group had to defend themselves.  But everyone else—they’d never had a chance.  It was a line he’d learned to draw early on as a Hunter.  In a profession where most of the time you can’t talk about what you do, and when you can, people rarely believe you, sometimes innocent people saw you as a threat.  Survival was key, but so was minimizing harm to innocents; someone in Zachariah or Uriel’s position who took active steps to pursue and oppose despite the evidence, despite every opportunity to listen, to watch, to believe—Dean didn’t want to hurt them, but if it came down to it, facing off against Masters Zachariah or Uriel wouldn’t bring the same unease or guilt that being forced to defend against a true innocent acting in perceived self-defense would bring.

 

Dean pushed the concern to the back of his mind and refocused on the Temple around them. He would deal with that mess when they came to it.  Maybe they’d get through this without any confrontations.  Maybe Master Shran could just—knock everyone out again.

 

It didn’t take long before Dean’s mind began drifting to the other nagging issue.  _Why had the Force deteriorated so fast?_   Dean had expected that being out of touch with the Force for so long would do a number on it, and him, but what had happened in the turbolift… the Force was terrifyingly close to unraveling, the kind of tearing apart that was supposed to happen when the Chosen One an the Wraith were united.  If Sam… _willingly_ … gave himself to Darth Azazel, there would be nothing Dean could have done, no way he could hold it together.  The Force would have flown apart and taken him with it.  But what this meant—

 

—Dean didn’t want to think it.  A battle waged within him.  Give in to the impulse, the _need_ , to feel for Sam, to search for his presence through the Force?  Or refrain, hold back.  Try not to think about his estranged brother and what had undoubtedly happened.  The only scenario that would make the Force tear apart that fast was if…  _Azazel must have found Sam.  Sam must be possessed._

 

Dean took a deep breath, stilling the turmoil inside, and gave in.  He had to know.  If Sam was possessed, they were almost out of time.  It wouldn’t be long now…

 

He slid sideways in the Force, reaching out through narrow rivulets and streams, letting himself flow through the nooks and crannies and tiny passageways until finally his awareness stretched far into the depths of the galaxy.  Once, Sammy’s presence had shown warm and bright like a beacon calling out to Dean no matter how many parsecs or light-years separated them.  After Sam had run away, and especially once he’d fallen under the thrall of the Wraith, his presence had begun to dim, blinking and stuttering, sometimes taking Dean minutes and then even more minutes to find.  Dean had to block the mental twinge of guilt that he and Cas had only _just_ discovered the existence of Azazel’s handmaiden, the secret star pupil who’d hidden herself in the Force, escaping the detection of the Protectorate, the Jedi, and everyone else, befriending Sam, lying to him, leading him astray… and right into the hands of Azazel.

 

Now when he stretched out and looked for the beacon, he was met with silence.  It wasn’t the sort of loss or echo or _nothingness_ he would find if Sam had died… he’d experimented with searching for his Father enough times to know what that felt like—it was more like Sam was _blocked_ , or the universe had erected an impenetrable wall between him and Sam, or indeed between Sam and everyone else.  Azazel had found Sam, and was possessing him, keeping his awareness tamped down in a corner of his own mind, keeping him out of touch with the rest of the universe.  _He’s Azazel’s prisoner!_ Dean thought, a surge of bile climbing its way up his throat in response.  Of _course_ , Azazel would keep Sam locked away.  He could manipulate him, control him, show him a taste of the sort of _power_ they’d have together, force Sam to listen to him.  And cut off from everything, Sam would start to slip; he’d get lonely, start to doubt, and then one day soon, he’d agree and—

 

 _That will be the end of everything._

 

Cas nudge Dean through the connection, his mind pressing a gentle question.  Cas had felt the same dead end as Dean, and he knew what that meant, but he wanted to hear it from Dean, not jump to conclusions, give Dean the space to articulate what he _thought_ it meant, give his take on the situation.  It was one of those little reflexive bits of understanding between them that Dean cherished. 

 

He pressed back with the answer, his mind echoing with a pang of defeat and fear and loss.  They could still succeed.  It would take time to break Sam, but how _much_ time?  Sam was already so twisted up in lies and self-hatred that it might not take long.  Sam was convinced he was evil on some level.  But he also thought he knew better, was better, than others around him, and the tug-of-war that waged in his mind could lead to the sort of perverse manifestation that would make him welcome Azazel, and willingly combine their powers.  Sam could fall very quickly.

 

Cas’s presence grew, comforting Dean like a warm embrace.  Cas steadied him, relaxed him, kept him focused…  It was pure relief to have that back after so many hours spent separated.  Once again, Dean wondered how he’d survived as half a person for so long, because that’s what he was without Cas. 

 

 _We will be in time._

The words hung in Dean’s forming a levy against the raging tide of uncertainty, doubt, and fear.  He steadied and settled, and went back to the task of scanning their surroundings.  He thought Shran might have asked something right about then, but he wasn’t entirely sure. 

 

In order to keep better tabs on their surroundings Dean and Cas had divided the labor between them based on _task_. Cas was doing all the talking for both of them keeping Master Shran engaged as they moved through the quarter at a stealthy stroll, staying close to the walls and deepest shadows.  Dean, on the other hand, was focused on scanning their surroundings, using his own senses and connection to the Force along with everything Cas saw, heard, smelled, touched to form a three dimensional picture of the Temple around them.  That was the _real_ reason Cas was dogging Master Shran’s footsteps while Dean lagged behind.

 

The There were no students—or anyone for that matter—in the rooms they were passing not for at least a hundred meters ahead on this corridor—in other words, the path between them and the Core turbolifts should be clear.  There were a few sentient beings in adjacent halls—at least some of whom were either sleeping or meditating judging by the peaceful, steady, lull Dean felt in their Force presence, and there were three rooms that they had already passed that were each presently inhabited by a single being, but all three of those individuals were intently focused on other tasks—Dean hadn’t paid close attention to discern _what_ they were doing—and they showed no signs of stepping out into the hall.

 

The air around them was still, yet charged with energy.  Cas was taking in the beauty of the soft blue carpet beneath their feet and the cool grey, stone walls and ceiling that gently arched over head—it reminded Cas of his youth so many millennia ago, when he had lived in a similar room, maybe a hall or two from here.  His attention was still keenly focused on any potential threats up ahead, but unlike Dean, whose own senses barely noticed the physical appearance of their surroundings, he was taking in the visual beauty and sparse calmness of the hall.  They were Cas’s thoughts and Memories, but Dean felt them as if they were his own. 

 

It _could_ be strange, maybe even should be, the way that Cas’s thoughts and his blended together, their perceptions melded until they were really one big mind with two bodies, but it came naturally to Dean; it felt even easier, more seamless and in tune, now after being disconnected from the force for a time—and he knew Cas felt the same.

 

Dean’s attention snapped back to the Force, letting the thread of Cas’s recollections drift to the back of his mind.  A group of four Jedi—two Padawans and their Masters—were moving through the quarter level by level, searching around the turbolift bank for signs of the escapees.  Master Shran had sent the lift on back down after they’d left it, but this group was efficient, and they were working in coordination with two other teams who had already made their way through all the floors except this one and those above.  They moved fast because they didn’t look much farther than the immediate area around the lifts, looking for any sign of disturbance, any Force eddies or echoes, anything at all that broke with mundane typicality.  Having found nothing, they’d made here and sure enough, they sensed something.  They didn’t know _what_ they sensed; Dean could tell that much from the confusion in the Padawans’ minds, but they knew that the _Force_ felt different here.

 

That was one itty-bitty disadvantage of being the Healer; the Force in Dean’s immediate vicinity was always at its purest, cleanest, and most balanced.  It wasn’t the sort of detail that most Jedi or other Force users would detect—so far _none_ of the Jedi Dean had encountered or Darth Azazel or his acolytes had figured it out.  But these Jedi tracking them weren’t trying to understand, they just knew that there was something distinctive about the Force on this level and that was all they needed to know.  They would investigate further, and the stream of freshly healed Force would lead them to Dean like a homing beacon.

 

Dean turned his head, searching up and down the hall, taking in their surroundings through his non-Force senses.  This was not good.  Because they’d needed to jury-rig the lift and send it away, getting out of the turbolift through the emergency hatch and climbing through the doors on this level had taken time.  They were about two corridors over from the First Knowledge quarter’s central turbolifts and had covered half the distance between the there and the core lifts.  Now, they were in a relatively barren hall, and the architecture of this level didn’t really offer much in the way of hiding places.  They could easily break into one of the student apartments, but once there they’d be more-or-less trapped unless they resorted to carving holes in the walls with their lightsabers.  Dean was really hoping it didn’t come to that.

 

“We need to hurry up, company’s coming,” Cas said, speaking Dean’s thoughts.

 

Cas noticed Shran pause to reach out in the Force; Dean only knew this because Cas knew it; Dean’s own attention was split between the rapidly approaching group of Jedi and another figure that Cas had noticed walking their way from up ahead.  At least that was only _one_ person, a human boy, a young Padawan perhaps by the way he felt in the Force.  There was something else _different_ about him, but Dean couldn’t place it.  The boy seemed aware that something was going on, but he wasn’t excited or fearful or worried or professionally detached the way every other Jedi in the temple felt.

 

Dean’s attention swept back to the four Jedi that were tracking them.  Now that they knew the escapees were here, they would be calling in reinforcements. Sure enough, Dean could feel the alert go up, curious minds throughout the temple responding, turning their attention to the Jedi who had sent it.

 

But there it was again, that one mind, taking in the information and processing it, but having an entirely different reaction than the others. The boy seemed _concerned_ , but his concern seemed to be _for_ Dean and Cas rather than _about_ them.

 

 _Sithspit!_

 

“Sithspit!” Cas vocalized Dean’s thoughts.

 

The four Jedi coming up behind seemed to have clued in to what it was that was different about the Force here.  They were following it like a trail, and now were approaching much faster.  They were already in the adjoining corridor and only about 50 meters back.  As soon as they reached this corridor they would be able to see the three escapees.  Dean ran through their options in his mind, Cas’s thoughts adding to his as they accepted and rejected each option, all where looking around for a place to hide.

 

Breaking into one of the quarters in this hall would be particularly bad since the Jedi would follow the Force directly to their door and barge in.  They could speed up, try to put more distance between them and the Jedi before they reached the hallway, but even if all three used the Force to speed their movements, they’d likely _not_ make it to the turnoff to the Turbolifts in time, and any other course diversion would just likely get them stuck.

 

 _Plus our Force profiles will be larger_ —that thought belonged to Cas.

 

 _There_ , up ahead was a place to hide; or at least buy them a little time and let them duck out of sight.  About ten meters away, two smoothly rounded, cool, dark, stone arches swept out into the hallway on either side of one of the recessed doors leading to an empty student quarters creating a deep alcove created with just enough space for the three of them to press themselves into the shadows.  If the lights were a little dimmer and the healed Force wasn’t drawing their pursuers in, they’d have a very good chance of going undetected even by a Jedi.  Under the circumstances, the hiding place would probably only buy them a few minutes.  Dean could tell that while the Jedi seemed to be fast approaching, they were moving more carefully now, slowing, focusing more on the Force and not so much on their other senses.  It was a mistake that, combined with the shadows and the droning hum of the air circulators, would at least give them a little time to plan—they could even talk safely for another minute or two as long as they did so quietly, which would come in handy for keeping Master Shran in the loop.

 

They’d still need to come up with a plan.

 

 _Force projection_? Dean wondered, letting the idea take shape in his and Cas’s minds.  It would burn energy, and it might not work, given that their pursuers would still be able to see the trail in the Force… and it wasn’t like Dean could stop healing the Force; that was as involuntary as his psychometric capabilities, and even if he _could_ turn it off, that would just undo all the work they’d just done healing Dean.  Now that he was sure Sam was possessed, he wouldn’t chance that anyway.

 

 _Oh_ , the thought came to Dean and Cas at the same time, as they realized one obvious tool they had at their disposal but had not thought to use.

 

“Master Shran,” Cas asked, his voice low and hurried, “there are four Jedi following us; they will be in this corridor in a matter of seconds.  Can you identify them and tell us what might be the best strategy for… handling this encounter?”  As Cas spoke, he tugged at Shran’s sleeve, quickening their steps to a near jog, and steering Shran into the deep alcove.

 

Dean slid into the space behind them, the sleeve covering his injured arm brushing against Cas’s side, giving tactile verification of his presence.  Cas leaned back into him, the contact providing an extra boost of reassurance that steadied Dean.

 

“Yes,” Shran responded at last, somewhat hesitantly, his voice dropping of with a quiet grunt of concentration. 

 

Dean kept his eyes trained on the hallway behind them, watching for the Jedi, struggling to suppress a snort as Cas cast his eyes over Shran, taking in his scrunched forehead and almost-pained look of intense focus.  Shran was probably still getting used to reaching out in the Force in a way that didn’t expand his Force presence.  Dean understood—as much as he could—it probably took a lot of awkward adjustment to relearn the way one used the Force to extend one’s senses, especially after training the same way for so many years, decades.  But the look of almost pain on Shran’s face was so awkward, it bordered on humorous.  Maybe that was a good thing, Dean—or maybe it was Cas—reasoned.  The situation couldn’t be that dire if they could still laugh, or it was nice to believe that.

 

“Oh dear,” Shran muttered half under his breath, his features finally relaxing as he remembered how to slip into the Force without so much effort.  He opened his eyes and turned, meeting Cas’s gaze directly and then glancing at Dean.  “The two masters are Travis Celchu and Tamara Antilles,” he shuddered, “they’re very talented Jedi, both Shadows, but both are a little—overzealous.  They tend to see everything in black and white—” 

 

Dean felt his eyebrow give an involuntary quirk.

 

“Ok, _more_ black and white, than your average Jedi.  They don’t see any middle ground; balance is _evil_ as far as they’re concerned—if they think you have something to do with the Sith, they won’t think twice about taking you out,” Shran dropped his eyes and let out a sigh.  “They see it as protecting the purity of the light side.  Any hint of the Dark Side is too much of a threat, too dangerous.”  He shook his head a little, whether out of dismay or frustration wasn’t clear, “I don’t know their Padawans…  I’m pretty sure they’re both new assignments, and I’m not familiar with their signatures.  Travis and Tamara though, are formidable opponents.  They won’t listen to reason…”

 

Dean felt a _tug_ in the Force so he slipped back into its surging flow and followed the sensation to its source—

 

“Y’know, you go too far to one side, and you kinda wrap right back around to the other.  That’s why the extremes are so… destructive,” Cas said, voicing Dean’s thoughts.

 

—It was the boy.  He was coming closer—running as if on a deadline, desperate to reach the corridor, opening himself to the Force as much as his growing skills would allow, and using it to speed him faster.  The boy thought something _bad_ was about to happen.

 

 _Maybe he realizes the Shadows are about to reach us?_   Cas’s thought floated into Dean’s mind.

 

 _Perhaps; I’m starting to wonder if the knows who, or what, we are,_ Dean agreed as his attention was drawn back to the rapidly approaching Jedi Shadows and their apprentices.  They had reached the hall now and with every passing second they drew closer to the escapees’ hiding place.  He was vaguely aware of Shran speaking; Cas thought Shran was giving them a strange look.

 

“You sound like Dean,” Shran murmured, then paused.  “Actually, that’s several times since we left the turbolift that you have spoken and your phrasing was much more informal, casual; you didn’t sound like that before, and you’re—”

 

“What?” Dean and Cas both thought it, Cas whispered the words, as Dean’s lips curled into a smile at Cas’s reaction to Shran’s perplexed expression.

 

“You’re blurry… your Force signatures—it’s like they’re out of focus… blended together.”

 

“You don’t say,” Cas whispered it with deadpan blandness that was all his own; when Dean had thought the words, they’d had a decided snort behind them.

 

“That really sounds like Dean,” Shran mumbled.

 

“That’s ‘cause it _is_ Dean,” Cas said, then for himself with a tone of reserved condescension that had Dean mentally chuckling, “I am speaking as well.  Our bond allows us to combine and divide activities as needed.  Right now, Dean is managing surveillance using our senses and what we feel through the Force to maintain a three-dimensional picture of our surroundings and the whereabouts of other Jedi; meanwhile, I am handling the communication.”  Cas ended with a little huff of air that was more Dean’s than his.

 

“You’re not kidding,” Shran whispered, his voice awed.  “I’ve been having a conversation with _you_ ,” it was pretty clear he meant Cas, “but I’ve really been talking to both of you.”  There was a long pause.  “You two have probably been having long conversations behind my back—”  Shran broke off as if he was embarrassed by what he’d said.

 

Dean felt a little bad for the guy.  Sure, some Jedi developed excellent skills in communicating telepathically through the Force, but that wasn’t quite the same.  The way he and Cas worked together, was probably very… unexpected.

 

“It might help if you thought of us as one person,” Cas suggested.

 

 _Cas, seriously?_

 

“Or maybe not,” Cas added, giving Dean the mental approximation of a shrug.

 

Shran was quiet.  Dean just hoped he got over his amazement fast, ‘cause the really were going to have company soon.

 

Dean’s focus spread out again—the boy was coming even faster now, running along a corridor perpendicular to theirs, which would spit him out only 25 meters away from Dean, Cas, and Shran.  The friendly vibe Dean got from him had better be correct, or else they’d be boxed in—three exhausted Force-users with only two lightsabers among them against five decidedly not tired Jedi, four on one side, one on the other.  Dean did not like those odds.  But maybe he could find out more about the kid…

 

“Master Shran,” Cas began again, “there is a young boy approaching us from the center of the temple, can you identify him?”

 

“Yes,” Master Shran replied, the surprise evident in his whisper enough to make Dean actually turn to look at Shran himself.  “That’s young Michael… I ran into him earlier, he told me the Force needed healing.”  His face was bathed with incredulity.  “You don’t think—”

 

Except it was clear that they were all thinking along the same lines.  If Michael was running this way, feeling concerned _for_ Dean and Cas, and he’d understood the Force needed healing, then chances were he knew—at least instinctively—who they were.  And now the kid was running headlong into a confrontation with two Jedi Masters and their pupils who didn’t exactly stop to ask questions.  If Dean didn’t do _something_ soon, it would get very, very messy, very, very quickly.

 

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 26:**

He had to do _something_. Dean communicated his plan with Cas across their connection in the Force.

 

 _Be careful_ , Cas said in his mind, a wave of pleading and concern accompanying the thought.

 

He gave the mental equivalent of a reassuring squeeze and slipped out of the alcove, sliding sideways through the Force to blend in with the wall, the shadows, as much as possible without expanding his presence in the force or revealing his location.

 

“We must provide cover for Dean,” Cas said as Dean moved. Cas’s voice had taken on that strange—almost echo—it got sometimes when he was speaking for both of them.

 

Dean _ran_ , sprinting along the hall until he rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a very young Padawan.

 

The boy’s eyes grew wide when he saw Dean.

 

“Hey, Michael? That’s your name, right?” Dean managed to say, his voice low, quiet, and scratchy. He was still so—expanded—with his senses that it was difficult to speak aloud. He felt the gentle nudge and transfer in his mind as Cas took over more of the sensing and ceded speech back to Dean. The Jedi Masters were nearly there! “Look,” he continued, before Michael could speak. “There are Jedi coming. They will attack us. I don’t want you to get hurt. They’re very close.”

 

“Healer,” Michael replied, his voice awed. “You healed the Force. I am here to help you.”

 

Through Cas’s senses he saw the Masters coming to the end of their hallway. Within seconds they would be _here_! “You have to go—”

 

“No, you don’t understand. The Force wants me to help you. I will hold them off. Misdirect them. You will escape. You _have_ to escape or the Universe will perish,” Michael insisted sounding wise beyond his years.

 

Dean’s shock rippled through him and back into Cas. “The _Force_ sent you?”

 

“Yes,” Michael said, and as he spoke it was as if he... _shimmered_ , and Dean saw and understood.

 

The boy was powerful beyond his years. Trained in ways that shouldn’t be possible. The Protectorate had reached out through the Force and _touched_ him, giving him the power he needed to help the Healer and his Guide in the time of gravest need. That time was now.

 

“Go, and may the Force be with you,” Dean said with a nod and an almost salute.

 

In the next second _everything_ happened.

 

Michael surged forward and _Force Jumped_ the remainder of the distance to the mouth of the hallway.

 

Dean slipped back in his own mind, communicating with Cas and easing his strain so he could speak aloud.

 

“We must go now,” Cas whispered, his words clear and loud in Dean’s mind.

 

Cas was pulling, _tugging_ Master Shran along for the ride. Sliding sideways in the Force and following Dean’s path through the shadows.

 

“I don’t understand,” Shran complained, sounding shocked; then at the moment Michael’s Force Jump carried him past, Shran said, “What—what was?” His shock echoed through the force.

 

“He is of the Protectorate. Fulfilling his task as commanded by the Force. Run!” Cas replied.

 

“Masters! Masters! There are intruders. They ran past me. That way, you must hurry!” Michael called out as he appeared in front of the Jedi Masters and their Padawans.

 

Dean could _feel_ what happened, seeing without looking, knowing... To the Masters, Michael seemed to be running towards them sounding breathless and looking scared. He was pointing in the opposite direction back the way Dean, Cas, and Shran had come, distracting the Masters and blocking their view, using his Protectorate-trained ability to slip into the force to actually _mask_ Dean and his companions without appearing to.

 

Dean sent Michael a wave of gratitude through the Force, confirmed Cas and Shran were close behind him and sprinted down the hall and around the corner to the bank of turbolifts. Michael was strong and remarkably skilled, but he would not be able to hold off the Masters for ever, especially not without endangering himself. Dean had to hurry. He reached out through the force and found Michael’s mind, thanking him and asking him not to endanger his position with the Order—they needed people who _knew_ , who understood. When he received Michael’s understanding-but-reluctant acknowledgment, Dean dropped to his knees and slid the remainder of the way to the hatch.

 

He fumbled at first as he tried to pry off the panel covering the hatch that would give them access to the emergency maintenance conduit between the lifts. He missed _his_ gloves. These had no ability to grip and tugged and pulled uncomfortably as he moved. He pried the panel free on the second try, using the Force to help stabilize and grasp it. He placed it to the side and leaned inside. Looking up, then down, to make sure the conduit was clear. Bright yellow-white lights glowed at intervals above and then down, down, so far down to the base of the Temple Ziggurat below. Dean was still injured and concussed enough he had to fight off the spinning dizziness of vertigo, gulping in air a few times to keep down the bile that threatened to escape. It was clear. He transmitted the message to Cas, brushing firmly, but gently, against him in his mind. The touch was loving, life-affirming. They were still okay, still able to fight, there was still time to save Sam and heal the Force and save the Universe.

 

Cas’s mental touch lingered, caressed, and then reluctantly slipped free to tend to Shran, who was very close to losing it.

 

Mentally chuckling, Dean slipped the rest of the way inside the hatch, reaching across to the ladder on the far wall and began his climb.

 

“What was that—what happened to Michael?” Shran asked in a nervous hiss as Cas led him into the conduit and used a tiny quick tug of the Force to close the panel behind them.

 

Dean could feel and see the entire exchange through their bond.

 

“Michael is of the Protectorate,” Cas said simply as he began his ascent behind Dean, reaching out to steady Dean as one of his gloves slipped on the rungs.

 

“What—what does that mean? His Force signature—it shimmered and _changed_ —I’ve never seen that before. What—what does that mean?”

 

“He revealed himself,” Cas said, speaking his own words. Then, “Come on, there’s no time. We’ll explain it all later,” he added for Dean.

 

Dean saw Shran’s disconcertment over Cas’s change in speech patterns, but pushed it aside. Already, he was just inside the access hatch on the next level. He let his senses slip farther out, checking for threats and Jedi blocking the way between the conduit and Master Zachariah’s quarters. The Temple was on alert now, and many were coming this way, streaming from all sides—Zachariah must have finally grown concerned Dean and Cas would come for their gear—but they weren’t there yet. Still, there was little time.

 

Reaching out with the elbow of his injured arm, Dean knocked the panel free as he made sure Cas had all the details and was getting Master Shran to follow and hurry.

 

Dean pulled himself to a crouch outside the emergency maintenance conduit and hunkered down against the wall outside, careful to stay in the narrow space between the hatch and the nearest turbolift door. He allowed himself to relax as he waited for Cas and Shran to follow him out of the conduit and reset the panel. Dean _ached_ , his still far-from-healed injuries protesting his recent athletics. _Not much farther_ , he reminded himself. It was a tiny jog to the nearest hallway and then a straight shot to Zachariah’s personal quarters. If they could make it that far they could retrieve their gear—including his utility belt and Cas’s lightsaber. If they could make it that far, they could escape... Dean had a plan.

 

Cas brushed his mind, stirring Dean from his near-trance, signaling Cas and Shran were ready to go.

 

Dean struggled to his feet, wavering slightly, and waited until he “heard” Cas whisper to Shran that they were going.

 

Without another word, Dean darted across the space surrounding the lifts and over until he reached the hallway that would take them to master Zachariah’s quarters. After pausing to make sure Cas and Shran were following close on his heels he darted down the long corridor, moving as fast as his injuries allowed. He could siphon more of the force into himself to speed his healing, or really just _absorb_ it as it passed through, but Dean didn’t want to take a chance the variation that would cause in the Force would alert the Jedi to his exact whereabouts. So, he pushed on, healing lungs burning with the exertion, focused on the goal—the door. Ten meters, five meters, two meters...

 

“Dean,” Cas said aloud as he placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

 

Dean could feel Cas’s concern for him—worry, love, determination—flowing into him. _Oh_ , they had reached the door.

 

“What’s the plan now?” Master Shran asked nervously. “I hate to say so, but Master Zachariah’s code is heavily encrypted,” he added. “I’ve heard you’re a formidable slicer, but I don’t think even you could crack the door code before they get here.

 

Unsteadily, Dean turned to face Cas and Shran, sparing the latter an incredulous look. No wonder the Jedi were in such... disarray. If Shran was an example of their finest minds and _he_ was having trouble piecing together what was about to happen...

 

 _Be nice, we have just... toppled his worldview. I doubt this is a fair representation of his abilities_ , Cas said in Dean’s mind.

 

Dean let out a mental huff. “Can you help me with this glove?” he asked aloud, holding his right hand out so Cas could tug the glove off.

 

Cas shot Dean an uncertain, wary glance, but complied, carefully peeling back the stretch material and freeing Dean’s hand.

 

 _You are putting this back on the moment that door is unlocked_ , Cas communicated through their bond.

 

“No arguments here,” Dean murmured aloud before sucking in a breath and holding his palm up to the touch pad.

 

“What are you—” he heard Shran start to say.

 

But Dean was already pressing his palm to the sensor, pushing away the last few stray molecules of air between him and his target. His skin met the small touchpad and he was immediately overwhelmed

 

 _Smugness. Anger. Superiority. Frustration with Winchester. Disappointment in Shran for not giving the Order more respect. Fear—of Darth Azazel, of his followers, of the Prophecy—quickly smothered in dismissal, sarcasm, and resoluteness to stamp out such idiocy. So much... hatred, all prettied up in bureaucratic packaging._

 

The Code, Dean, you need the code.

 

Dean forced aside Zachariah’s emotions, memories, and fantasies—Dean shuddered, the man had fantasized about taking over the Jedi High Council in the event of Master Yoda’s death—and looking for the codes. The codes— _there_. Almost buried underneath the emotional baggage the Councilor and Jedi Master, were the actual codes to open the door. They were changed frequently but _there_. He could see the number, Zachariah’s fingers flashing over the touchpad as he entered the numbers. The pad itself was supposed to be biometrically sensitive, only bringing up the interface if the right person touched it, but Dean was able to—adapt the information the sensor collected from him, tricking it and forcing it to bring up the interface. _3263827_ —that was the code. As he punched in the numbers, he could feel himself wearing down under the emotional onslaught from continued contact with the pad, while the sound of footsteps approached at an alarmingly fast rate.

 

Dean confirmed the command to open the door and watched as it slid open with a barely audible hiss. Dean didn’t realize his legs were collapsing until he felt Cas’s arms closing around him, catching him and carrying him through the now-open doorway and into the dimly lit quarters beyond.

 

“Easy,” Cas murmured into Dean’s ear, as Shran slipped into the room behind them, immediately fiddling with the commands to close and lock the door.

 

“They’ll be here any minute now. The Temple guards monitor the Councilors’ quarters. They already know this access is unauthorized. They will mobilize immediately and we will be trapped, so I hope you have a plan,” Shran grumbled as he dropped into a guard position just inside and to the right of the door.

 

Dean didn’t have the energy or attention to spare on explaining things to Shran, and Cas was too focused on Dean and their escape plan to comment.

 

“Dean,” Cas murmured against his ear, spoken words grounding Dean. “I am going to wait to put this glove back on until we have retrieved our belongings.”

 

Of course. Dean might need to use his psychometry again to open a safe, and if they were very lucky, Dean’s own gloves might be among the belongings Zachariah had confiscated and taken to his quarters. Dean nodded and told Cas “yes” through their bond.

 

“Where is the safe?” Cas asked Shran.

 

There was a grunt, and Dean glanced over at the door.

 

Shran had slipped into a near-trance, obviously monitoring the approach of the Jedi. “In the receiving room—the big open room—he has a decorative table that is really not...” Shran trailed off. “Masters Uriel and Zachariah are on this level!”

 

Receiving room... receiving room... Dean searched while Cas helped him to his feet. There—beyond the dwelling’s foyer and straight back was a large, open room with floor-to-ceiling windows for one wall. The space, which most people would have referred to as a “living room,” opened out onto the long balcony alongside which a personal shuttle—more like a roomy, souped-up airspeeder—was docked and moored. And in the center of the room was an ornate cube of gilded wood, easily 1.5 meters in each direction, carved and engraved with sigils Dean recognized as being... Sith? He wandered closer, feeling very confused.

 

“It’s his souvenir,” Shran called back, whether responding to Dean’s mental question or just anticipating his surprise, Dean wasn’t sure. “He thinks it shows the good he’s done in the universe. Master Zachariah retrieved it from an ancient Sith outpost where a young Padawan got lost and fell under its influence. The Padawan recovered without lasting harm, and Zachariah took the box as proof of his _important role_ in the continued safety of the galaxy... and to show the Sith aren’t a threat,” Shran scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “He used the Force to ‘cleanse’ the box. I checked it, and it’s harmless.”

 

Dean nodded, though Shran probably couldn’t see him. Dean reached out in the Force just enough to get a read on the erstwhile table and its defenses. Much to his surprise, only a simple locking mechanism, easy to pry open with the Force, secured it.

 

“It is not even booby trapped—there is nothing to ensure that only Zachariah can open the box,” Cas observed, his voice bearing the same disbelief Dean felt.

 

“He sure is arrogant,” Dean agreed. “He probably didn’t expect anyone to get in here... This whole setup,” he shook his head, “it’s all to impress his guests. Show his prowess and confidence as a Jedi. It’s... sickening.” Dean shuddered as he took a step closer to the table and began to lower himself to his knees.

 

Or at least he _tried_. Cas reached out and grabbed him around the waist, steadying Dean. “Why do you not just stand here and open it and allow me to retrieve out belongings,” he suggested.

 

Dean leaned heavily into Cas and sighed. “Okay,” he agreed. He reached out in the Force, hesitantly, making sure there was nothing else he was missing. _Oh!_ “It’s shielded... Some kind of Sith Rune maybe? It—” his stomach clenched at the thought. “It doesn’t feel like a ysalimir.” Dean was glad; as dangerous as the lizards were to him right now, he would hate to think of one somehow trapped or butchered to protect a “treasure chest” such as this. “However it’s protected—I can’t tell what’s inside.”

 

“I cannot sense its contents either,” Cas agreed, “but I do not fell any threat from that.”

 

“No, no threat,” Dean replied. Pressing against Cas for support he said, “I’m gonna open it now.”

 

Cas gave him the mental equivalent of a shoulder squeeze through the bond.

 

Dean took a deep breath, opening himself more fully to the Force within him, reached out, and freed the pieces of the locking mechanism that were holding the table shut. It gave with a satisfying “pop” that Dean felt rather than heard. He half expected something more—an alarm, an explosion, maybe even some infamous Sith lightning to come flying out of the now-open table. But nothing happened. The top, with its intricately carved runes had simply popped up, so rather than being a flat surface that did a good imitation of a caf-table, it looked like the box it genuinely was. Time to have a closer look... that was when Dean realized he was still flinching away from the open lid. Straightening up he said, “Cas, is our stuff in there? It’s shielded so...”

 

It wasn’t like Dean could go poking around anyway, well, he could if he wanted to do it one-handed, or if he wanted to wait for Cas to put on his other glove. But then again, he didn’t really trust how _strong_ these gloves were. They were almost completely untested, and manhandling a Sith containment box—”cleansed” or not—wasn’t really the way he wanted to test them. He shuddered involuntarily. At least he hadn’t needed to _touch_ this lock... that would have been a disaster.

 

The touch of Cas’s mind and his voice filtered through Dean’s musings and drew him back to himself.

 

“It looks like... yes, here is my lightsaber,” Cas said aloud as he retrieved the item, “and your utility belt,” he held it up too, but didn’t pass it to Dean—it was contaminated now and they couldn’t chance Dean coming into direct contact with it until they were in a much safer, more secure, location—”and... your gloves. Yes, here they are, and it appears they are undamaged,” Cas added as he turned to face Dean, holding up the specially designed triple-layer nerfhide gloves.” The only contact they had with the box was on the outside, and they were resting on something, so even that contact was minimal.” Cas sounded very relieved. He beckoned Dean closer with one hand.

 

Dean couldn’t blame him—at least this way he’d be able to function more normally. They’d still be at a disadvantage considering Dean’s injuries, but at least now he wouldn’t be trying to escape with his hands tied behind his back. He smiled with relief and held out his right hand.

 

Cas obligingly slipped the glove onto it, careful that the outside didn’t touch Dean’s skin.

 

Dean and Cas both let out a long sigh of relief as soon as the glove was on. It felt so much more... secure. Dean instantly relaxed. The only time he liked having skin exposed was when they were together in their bunk on the _Dream_. Any other time and it was just tempting fate. Sure, Dean might lose something very valuable, but he also might collapse in front of an enemy or under really dangerous circumstances.

 

“Here, let me help with the other glove,” Cas said softly. He gave the glove presently on Dean’s hand a little tug with the Force, so Dean was able to shake free of it. “The less I have to touch that, the less I worry about accidentally transferring something back to you,” he murmured.

 

Dean blushed. “You know it doesn’t work that way...” And that was a very good thing, or Dean would be well, probably starved from any amount of contact—sentient or otherwise—for risk of being overwhelmed by emotions.

 

“I just don’t like were those gloves have been,” Cas said aloud, with a tone that sounded more like Dean than himself.

 

Dean’s mind involuntarily flashed back to the ysalimir. The clinic below the detention center. Bleeding. Choking. Not being able to touch Cas mentally. Being out of contact with the Force. The glove had come out of that mess—separation. Imprisonment. He couldn’t blame Cas for acting almost superstitious. Instead he smiled and breathed another relieved sigh as Cas gently, carefully, slid Dean’s second glove onto his outstretched hand. He flexed his fingers carefully. The gloves responded like a second skin. Satisfied, Dean strode forward and touched the popped-up lid of the Sith box. “Good,” he murmured.

 

Beside him, Cas, clucked in acknowledgment, clearly distracted.

 

“What is it?” Dean asked, peering over the side of the box to see what had grabbed Cas’s attention. It was dark inside. Fittingly dark and _gloomy_ considering it was a repurposed Sith artifact. The thought made Dean shudder. He’d been hunting down Sith artifacts almost his entire life, since long before he realized he could touch the Force or well that the Force flowed through him in ways much more literal than for most Force-users. Master Zachariah was terrifyingly, dangerously pompous and arrogant to have brought the Sith box to the temple, let alone used it as... furniture. So many things could have gone very, very wrong.

 

“There are other objects in here,” Cas murmured. _I am hesitant to touch them, but I sense something... Sith in here,_ he added through their bond.

 

“Oh,” Dean said aloud, looking more closely. He could make out some sort of folded cloak—but it was brown and looked like an ordinary Jedi’s robe... he wasn’t sensing anything Sith coming from it when he reached out with the Force either. It felt pretty heavily saturated with the Light Side. _Are you sure it’s not the box itself?_

 

 _No_ , Cas communicated. “I think...” he reached in and picked up the folded cloak. “This is what your gloves were resting on,” he said, “I think there’s something el— _oh_...”

 

“Oh?” Dean asked. He blinked as he stared into the depths of the box. It was unnaturally dark inside, the bright afternoon light shining in from Zachariah’s balcony seemed to have no effect and the ambient lighting of the room penetrated even less. But inside he saw the corner of something that looked vaguely stone-like... but with red gems or ore or something streaked through it. Streaked through it in a pattern... a pattern that looked decidedly familiar and definitely _Sith_... “Is that?” he half-gasped, half-whispered.

 

“I think it is,” Cas confirmed. He set the cloak against the far side of the box and reached in.

 

Dean watched with bated breath as Cas’s fingers closed around he square and lifted it out. It glinted in the light as soon as it cleared the lip of the box and it’s presence... “Oh hell, it _is_!” he breathed. The _aura_ emanating from the square was powerful and dark. It felt _exactly_ like Lord Azazel. He had created it. It was the missing piece... the secret the Sith Lord had succeeded in keeping secret from the Protectorate. The secret that had nearly been their undoing—already was Sam’s. But finding it... possessing it... even now, there might still be time to get Sam back. Not just time to maybe stop him and save the galaxy. If they could get to _her_... “Maybe this little trip to Coruscant wasn’t such a bust after all.”

 

“Master Zachariah must have retrieved it from the ruins before we reached it. It could have been just before or _months_ before,” Cas said, “but either way, I bet this tipped him off. Either the Beckonstone planted the idea in his mind that we would travel there, or he figured it was something we would come after.” He held the red-tinged square up to the light—it was so like the Runes they had used to stop the Azazel’s first attempt at cataclysm, only red instead of blue green, and pitch black, and purely, clearly _evil_. Cas gave an involuntary shudder. “We need this. But we can’t...”

 

“We can’t exactly stick it in a pocket.” Dean nodded. What they knew of the Beckonstone’s powers were still vague and speculative, but there was a very good chance it could alert Azazel to their whereabouts or intent, or that the Sith Lord himself could reach out and _find_ them through the stone. Not to mention it was incredibly dangerous to remain in contact with such a dark artifact. Still, Dean felt himself drawn to touch... it was pulling him closer, shining reflectively in the light. He leaned towards Cas, reached out with one gloved hand... A gut-wrenching _tearing_ sensation welled up within him snapping himself from the trance the Beckonstone had put him under. Dean staggered back, clutching his stomach and leaning over. Bile tinged with the distinctive iron tang of blood gathered in his mouth. “Oh fuck! We definitely can’t pocket that. It’s tearing...” his stomach clenched. “The Force. It’s pulling...”

 

Cas unceremoniously dumped the Beckonstone back into the box, where it landed with a muted thump, probably falling on the cloak. “Dean?” he asked, worried. Then “Oh Sithspit, I cannot believe I touched that!” Cas shuddered so hard Dean shook with it. “I am sorry. So sorry.” He was by Dean’s side in an instant, wrapping his arms around him protectively.

 

Dean tried to breathe, reaching out for Cas mentally and physically. He could _feel_ , almost taste—smell—the disgusting sickly sweet stench of death and decay and the _Dark Side_ that had rubbed off on Cas where he’d touched the Beckonstone. It was dissipating quickly though, so Dean pushed it aside and concentrated instead on Cas, the Force, them... “It’s pure Dark Side... tainted with Azazel’s intent. Everything he wants to do to the Force...”

 

“Is echoed in the stone,” Cas finished. “Oh Dean, I am so sorry. So very sorry. I should have anticipated it would hurt you and call out to people to touch it. I—”

 

“Cas...” Dean pleaded. He wanted to say _it’s all right_ or some similar platitude, but those were hollow words. They both knew Dean was injured, the speedy healing he’d managed with the Force and Bacta partially undone, and he was no where near _recovered_ in the first place. Instead Dean stammered out the truth? “I’ll _be_ okay, just as long as we don’t do that again any time soon.” He smiled up at Cas, “Besides, it got to me as much as you. I leaned towards it. Was gonna touch it.” He blanched suddenly as realization hit him.

 

 

 **Chapter 27:**

Cas realized it too, whether through their bond or following a parallel path to the same conclusion, Dean wasn’t sure.

 

 _It’s a good thing we didn’t find this in the Ruins. Who knows what harm it would have caused without a Sith box to throw it into._

 

“The box,” Dean and Cas both said aloud, eyes meeting and then turning back to the box.

 

At the same time a resounding _boom_ sounded outside the door, followed by the distinctive sound of lightsabers—several lightsabers—springing to life.

 

“We’re about to have company!” Shran shouted, sprinting from the hallway into the living room. He looked startled and harried. “They aren’t waiting either. They just reached the door about 30 seconds ago, they’re already taking lightsabers to it. I’m a little surprised Master Zachariah would do that to his own quarters,” Shran admitted. “He must really want you stopped.”

 

“He believes we are delusional agents of the Dark Side who could cause unrest and contamination within the ranks of the Order,” Cas answered.

 

“Right, and he doesn’t understand he’s damning the Universe to oblivion if he succeeds,” Shran agreed with a nod. He flinched and ducked—a split-second later the door bent inwards as a massive Force charge hit it from the outside.

 

Dean and Cas exchanged glances, Cas looking as alarmed as Dean felt.

 

“What happened to using lightsabers?” Dean asked. They could be injured if the door flew inwards.

 

“Apparently someone stopped caring about collateral damage,” Shran observed. “You said you had a plan?” he asked skeptically.

 

“Master Zachariah’s private shuttle,” Cas confirmed.

 

“You—you can’t be serious?” Shran explained. “It’s got a tracking beacon and we’ll be stopped before we even clear Temple airspace. As soon as we take the personal shuttle—”

 

“Trust me, none of that’s going to be a problem. We’ve just hit an unexpected snag that I think we’ve fixed,” Dean said, straightening up as much he could. He was still bleeding, but it was healing quickly. Cas was funneling his own energy into Dean to help repair the damage the Beckonstone had done. Dean was still feeling a little woozy, but that had more to do with his total blood loss and the massive adrenaline crash that was determined to come sooner rather than later.

 

The door thundered with another bang.

 

“I guess we should be glad Master Zachariah is so... paranoid about people gaining entry to his quarters,” Dean said with a wry grin. Otherwise, the door would have given already, and they would really be in trouble.

 

“You said you hit a snag?” Shran asked, still obviously disbelieving.

 

“We need to get this box—the _table_ into Master Zachariah’s shuttle,” Cas answered.

 

“What?” Shran’s voice almost squeaked.

 

“There is a Sith object—it’s like one of the Runes the Prophecy spoke of. Only you won’t find mention of this in any ancient texts. The Protectorate didn’t know about it. It’s called the Beckonstone and it’s the reason we came to Coruscant in the first place, only Zachariah got to it first, removed it from the ruins and stored it here, in his safe. We _have_ to take it with us, but we can’t carry it in the open. It will kill me and alert Lord Azazel and probably every enemy we have to our location, so we have to shield it. The box is shielded. We couldn’t detect it until we took it out of the box, so the box should keep it hidden while we escape.” Dean finished with a small smile.

 

“Wait—it will _kill_ us—”

 

“No, it will only kill _me_. Look, I know it’s a lot to take in, but we have to get it on the shuttle. We’ll explain the rest later. If you can help us secure it this escape will go much faster. Oh, and how are you with Force projections?”

 

Shran stood dumbfounded for a few more moments before he threw up his hands in obvious frustration. “Okay, okay. I’ll help you. This had just better work. What do you need me to do?”

 

Cas answered because Dean was a ready slipping into the trance that would be necessary for the next portion of their escape. “Help me secure the box on the shuttle. Then prepare yourself to project an image of the shuttle escaping—going _up_. It will need to lure our pursuers.”

 

“I can do that,” Shran murmured, and stepped past Dean to help Cas with the box.

 

“Stay behind me. They’re coming now,” Dean managed aloud before slipping the rest of the way into the trance. He reached out into the room around him, feeling every contour, every molecule, every facet of his surroundings. He memorized it and projected it outwards—an image of the room without them. Undisturbed, untouched. The safe-table-box standing sedately in the middle of the room Sith carvings stark and cold against the otherwise-inviting interior. Once the illusion was complete, Dean pulled the Force, freshly smoothed and healed, into a wall before him. He bolstered it, reinforced against ordinary projectiles, blaster bolts, lightsaber blades, and offensive Force powers. He couldn’t hold it forever, but it would buy them time. Slow their pursuers. Allow Cas and Shran to finish their preparations behind him. _Go!_ He shouted to Cas through their bond.

 

The door crumpled in response to another resounding boom. The entire block of insulation and glowwire and electronics and durasteel and synthwood paneling exploded inwards, fracturing in two and spinning out of control. The smaller piece struck the hallway wall and imbedded itself there just below the ceiling. The larger came hurtling down the hallway aiming directly for Dean.

 

He could see it in the Force. He grasped its shimmering outline and steadied it. Slowing, turning, so the flattest side smacked into the Force barrier Dean had erected rebounded and fell to the floor with a clang.

 

“What the—” Shran exclaimed from somewhere behind Dean.

 

 _They’re on the balcony. Loading the shuttle_ , he realized.

 

“They cannot see us. Hurry. Dean cannot maintain the illusion and the barrier forever. Especially not if he is going to fly us out of here and project a decoy.”

 

“Fly?” Shran said in disbelief, his voice breathy. “But he—”

 

“He was already the best pilot in the galaxy before his connection with the Force was awakened,” Cas answered.

 

Dean’s attention drifted back from his partner and the Jedi Shadow conversing on the balcony and returned to the Jedi advancing on him. He was dimly aware of Shran and Cas’s efforts to secure the box and run the shuttle through preflight, while working out the details of their projections. Cas gave Dean’s mind a reassuring nudge, and Dean slipped away further focusing nearly all his attention on his current ruse.

 

Two Jedi Knights flanked by eager-looking Padawans stood in the doorway. Dean could feel another two Knights and their Padawans—no, they were Masters—approaching at a sprint from the direction of the central turbolifts. Ah, these were the Jedi who had nearly caught them on the floor below. He hoped Michael was all right! He didn’t sense any animosity towards the young Protectorate member, just single-minded determination and focus... _Oh great! One of them—Master Antilles, he realized—was using battle meditation._ He steeled himself, weaving the threads and strands of the illusion and barrier tighter and tighter together while spreading out his presence in the Force, making himself a more difficult target. He transmitted the new information to Cas, and relaxed when he felt the acknowledgement. It would be more difficult—their opponents more challenging—but Cas had faith in him, so Dean had faith in himself.

 

The Jedi were confused. He could feel their disquiet through the Force. They _knew_ logically the escaped prisoners must be inside or possibly out on the balcony, but they could see clear through the apartment and out the sliding doors and no one was there. They could tell something wasn’t quite _right_ about the room before them, especially when they saw the door fragment that seemed to have stopped and landed abruptly for no good reason. They crept into the apartment with cat-like stealth, lightsabers raised and at the ready.

 

Dean took a deep breath and steadied himself as the first one—Master Antilles if he wasn’t mistaken—approached the barrier.

 

She was looking to the side, staring back into the door that led to the ‘fresher, probably checking to make sure they hadn’t all managed to cram themselves inside the relatively tiny space. As she took another step, instead of moving through air, she hit and almost _bounced_ off the barrier.

 

Dean absorbed the strain, dissipating it, feeding it back into the illusion to strengthen it.

 

Before him, Master Farris was pulling her self together. She hadn’t fallen, but she had staggered back. She was looking—searching—actually staring _through_ Dean. She reached her hand up and felt the air in front of her, tensing, but not flinching, when she pushed against the invisible barrier before her. She glanced over her shoulder and shared a meaningful look with the other Jedi and Padawans.

 

“I—I do not understand,” one of the Padawans whose master was one of the Jedi to break down the door responded. He was a young human boy, and his eyes were comically wide as if he was trying to _see_ the Force physically.

 

“Reach out with your senses,” one of the two door breaching Jedi scolded, then apparently followed suit, only to pull back into himself with a start. “This makes no sense,” he murmured.

 

“The barrier is real, and yet I detect only the faintest echo of a Force presence in this room—as if someone was here recently and left,” Master Antilles said.

 

The other Master who’d accompanied her—Jensen couldn’t recall the man’s name—strode forward as if to confirm Master Antilles’s report. He _jabbed_ his lightsaber at the open space in the back of the room, but nearly dropped it when the empty air did not yield. “What _is_ this?” he wondered aloud.

 

Apparently still not satisfied, Master Antilles  took a broad sweeping slash at the invisible barrier only to suffer the same vibrational shock as her partner had only moments before.

 

The barrier and illusion held, but the last blow had _hurt_. Such a broad swath of the Force-imbued surface felt like a bodily slap to Dean. He _tingled_ , every volt of the plasma charge reverberating through him because _Dean_ and the Force were so heavily entwined, they were, for all intents and purposes, one and the same.

 

“Something Dark must be at work here,” Master Brown observed, “Master Zachariah said the prisoners were corrupted—tainted by the Dark Side. This must be their doing. They are still here.”

 

 _Oh great, assume just because_ you _don’t understand it, it_ must _be the Dark Side_ , Dean griped mentally. _Never mind that nothing you’ve seen of the Dark Side ever behaved anything like this... typical Jedi!_

 

He felt Cas reach out to soothe him, to remind Dean the Protectorate existed precisely because the Jedi and Sith both failed to understand an awful lot of important nuance about the force.

 

It was cold comfort, though, when Dean was being accused of being of the Dark Side while suffering the Jedi’s repeated blows.

 

 _It is not personal, Dean. They do not know_ , Cas whispered in the back of his mind. Then more urgently, _We are nearly ready. The box is secure and locked. Starting preflight on the shuttle now._.

 

 _I’ll cover the noise_ , Dean reassured.

 

 _Shran says that may not be necessary, apparently the shuttle is near silent. As long as you mask any Force distortion it gives off—do not strain yourself Dean. You are still bleeding inside; I can feel it._ Cas’s thoughts were loving and warm, but grappling-wire tight and _worried_.

 

Deep down Dean was slowly starting to realize he had a serious problem, well Cas thought it was a problem and so did Miss’Ouri, but Dean still wasn’t 100% convinced, of not paying enough attention to his own wellbeing. It had nothing to do with being _the Healer_ , except that, he supposed it did, because whether he’d been aware of it or not, he’d _always_ been the Healer. It wasn’t something that happened to him, it was what—who—he was. And part of that was self-sacrificing. He always put the needs of others—people he cared about, innocents, those without the means to defend themselves, people who asked for help, people he was duty and honor bound to protect—ahead of his own. He always thought of his own health last and reflexively worked down his reserves of strength (and the Force) without thought of holding anything back. He did realize—and admit—it was dangerous, at least insofar as the Healer needed to be strong enough to weave the Force back together, to smooth the rough edges and mend the breaks, and if he couldn’t patch his own leaks, he couldn’t fulfill his purpose, and the Universe would die. But on the same token… he _had_ to heal the Force first, then himself. He had to accrue and accumulate injury in order to have the _Force_ he needed to heal it. He knew Cas would say—and as he thought it he could feel the echo in Cas’s mind—that there was a difference between allowing himself to be injured for the sake of healing the Force and _forgetting_ to heal himself or pay attention to his condition, but that was where Dean had trouble reconciling instinct with knowledge.

 

“Perhaps they are still here, only somewhere… suspended from the balcony or hiding inside the shuttle perhaps?” Master Antilles’s words broke through the trance Dean had been slipping into. She and the other Master were still conversing over the source of the mysterious barrier.

 

“That is a possibility,” the other master replied, stroking his chin in contemplation.

 

“Masters, if I may,” one of the Padawans assigned to one of the two Jedi Knights was talking, “I believe we cannot trust our eyes. I—I do not _see_ or _feel_ anything clearly in the Force, but I believe what our senses convey is even farther from the truth than the presence in the Force.”

 

Oh great, it was _always_ the students that had the disastrously accurate ideas. Damn overeager kids! Dean poked at Cas’s mind, sending one word _hurry_.

 

Cas’s response was reassuring, but they still weren’t done yet. The shuttle would only start up so fast, and considering they were stealing an arrogant, safety-conscious Councilor’s shuttle, the preflight wasn’t exactly rigged for speed.

 

Dean could have shed time off the sequence, but—especially considering his current health and the health of the Force—maintaining the illusion and barrier while working on the shuttle _and_ preparing to fly the shuttle while projecting a Force illusion would be too much to ask. So he braced himself, allowing the Force to flow through him more quickly, smoothing it less because of the speed with which it passed, but drawing more power from it, more strength, focusing that into steadying the deception. The longer they maintained the illusion, the longer it was impenetrable, the better chance they had of making this work.

 

“Perhaps if we all _pushed_ against the barrier, attempted to penetrate it with the Force—maybe then we can see what is really here, or force a way to the other side,” the same Padawan spoke again.

 

Apparently the Masters and Knights agreed, because Dean was immediately under assault from eight distinctly different Force probes. _Hurry!_ He called out to Cas. He would tire soon. The Jedi—especially the Padawans—were putting every ounce of stamina, Force, and ingenuity they had into probing and tearing at the illusion. So far, the illusion had held. No one had seen what was really behind the invisible wall. But the barrier itself faltered in a few places. The Jedi managed to push through fists and palms—once the hilt of a lightsaber—by centimeters before he succeeded in pushing them back. He could see the Force in the barrier grow taut, brittle, starting to fray and snap. It was as if its elasticity was giving out after repeatedly being stretched and snapped back into place. If Cas and Shran didn’t get that shuttle ready in the next minute or two, he was going to have to retreat, which—while he would still be able to maintain the illusion, would be tricky. The barrier was harder to hold the farther from him he kept it, and if he pulled that back much farther, he’d have to contend with tactile dissonance, since the furnishings in the room wouldn’t match what the Jedi could see —they would figure out what was happening very quickly unless he also duplicated the room’s contents for touch as he was visually. He didn’t have the energy right now.

 

Cas and Shran were rushing, focusing—he could feel them reaching out in the Force readying the projections they would use to facilitate the escape. By allowing his conscious mind to drift to their preparations, Dean was able to ease some of the strain. The less he thought about what he was doing the easier it was to do. He had all but tuned out the Jedi and their varied attempts to penetrate his barrier when he felt something much more sinister and worrisome approaching.

 

Or rather a _lack_ of something.

 

 _Ysalimiri!_

 

Someone, and Dean needed only one guess to say who, was approaching at what felt like a quick, confident pace. He couldn’t feel the person, but rather the _bubble_ of nothing and nothingness that moved closer with every passing second.

 

 _Help! Lizards!_ He called out to Cas. The lizard—probably lizards by the size of the bubble would be there any moment—no wait...

 

He saw the blur of movement at the end of the hallway resolve into a person as Master Zachariah strode up to the doorway and entered. Master Uriel was with him.

 

They both were accompanied by ysalimiri on nutrient frame backpacks.

 

“What in the name of the Force happened here?” Zachariah asked with gaping seer.

 

The Jedi all stopped their prodding and turned in unison to face the Councilor.

 

“Master Zachariah,” Master Farris acknowledged, managing to keep all but the faintest hint of surprise from her voice, “we did not hear or sense your approach.”

 

“It’s the lizards, fascinating aren’t they? They’re utterly disturbing because they _repel_ the Force, but as unsettling as that can be, it is eminently useful under the right circumstances... like masking one’s approach or creating a zone of sanctuary from force-based attacks,” he answered with a cloyingly fake smile.

 

 _Yeah, they’re useful for sneaking up on people until they figure out how to look for_ holes _in the Force_ , Dean thought bitterly.

 

“Are they useful for getting through Force barriers and illusions?” the Master whose name Dean didn’t remember asked.

 

“Ah, yes, Master Brown, I believe they are quite useful. Is that what you believe is happening here... my quarters have...” Zachariah started, stepping cautiously into his hallway, lips pursing in disgust when he saw the fragments of his former door, tsking at the sight of the smaller portion embedded as it was.

 

“It may be the Dark Side at work, Master,” the too-eager Padawan suggested. “There is a barrier we cannot penetrate and the room feels... strange. We do not know what is beyond the barrier or if what we see is real.”

 

Master Zachariah slipped of his lizard backpack for a moment and walked further into the room, giving it an appraising look as if trying to stare through, deeper, looking _into_ the Force.

 

But even with the effort Dean knew he hadn’t been seen.

 

Master Zachariah stepped back to retrieve his ysalimir.

 

 _Cas!_

 

Zachariah exchanged a glance with Uriel and both began advancing on the barrier.

 

Warm, familiar arms closed around Dean from behind. It was soothing not shocking, and Dean felt Cas _shift_ in the Force next to him to take over some of the burden of the projection and barrier while physically hauling Dean backwards towards the balcony. An image of flight controls popped into his head. Cas was showing him what he would need to fly. It was a simple and familiar system—not particularly the best, although Dean figured that would be out of character for Zachariah, but easy to control. Easy to control while projecting something else.

 

 _No projection. We’ll handle that. We—I need you flying, paying attention, not crashing or passing out._

 

 _But..._ if Dean flew they would only have two decoys. It would be too easy co catch.

 

 _I have helped Master Shran to split his focus. Together we will work on a third projection. Now hurry!_

 

Dean abruptly realized they had reached the shuttle and Cas was helping Dean in, seating him in front of the primary controls. The shuttle was open, like an airspeeder, but had a retractable roof that sealed over the passenger compartment allowing for actual space flight. The sides also had proper doors that opened and closed rather than something one hopped over. It was... showy, flashy, impractical, inefficient, not at all the kind of thing Dean would have trusted himself to under normal circumstances. But these weren’t normal circumstances, and he didn’t really have a choice. He was dimly aware of Cas’s hands reaching around him snapping a harness over his shoulders and tugging the door closed, but then...

 

“Dean, _now_!” Cas shouted out loud at the same moment, Dean felt the nothingness of one of the ysalimir Force-bubbles press into the edge of the barrier.

 

He was grateful Cas had helped shore up the illusion and the barrier because the sudden _loss_ of the Force in that one tiny region felt like a piece had been taken out of _him_. Dean was so spread out in the Force, when the threads, tendrils, that were holding the barrier and illusion together were snapped and cut away, the entire projection tumbled like a house of Sabaac cards. He felt more than heard the stunned gasps of the Jedi as the wall fell away and the empty room and escaping shuttle came into view. Dean acted—reacted—as Cas and Shran sprang into motion.

 

Behind them, the Jedi quickly recovered from their shock—through the force they relayed their panic and called or reinforcements. Dean could _sense_ the Jedi flooding out of the Temple, streaming towards fighters, setting up to reach out with the Force to stop Dean and his companions.

 

“After them! The Sith have stolen back the relic. That table—my—there is a dangerous artifact inside. Surely they will bring darkness upon the galaxy if—”

 

Dean tuned out Master Zachariah’s ramblings. “You have no idea,” he muttered through clenched teeth as he pressed the throttle forward and squeezed the yoke as tightly as his still-healing hand would allow. The shuttle responded with a lurch that dropped off and then gradually accelerated again to an _acceptable_ escape speed. He shot out, and then pointed the shuttle’s nose straight down. The air _whizzed_ by, and if not for the harness the angle of descent would have chucked Dean clear out of the tiny almost-ship.

 

 

 **Chapter 28:**

 

Through the Bond, he knew Cas and Shran were showing the Jedi identical copies of the shuttle—one continued straight out, on the level, flying _away_ from the temple; another flew straight up, appearing to try to rise _above_ the congested three-dimensional web of Coruscant traffic, possibly trying to make a break for space or possibly hoping to hide on one of Coruscant’s many floating skyhooks; the third—the one Cas and Shran were projecting together—swept out and away from the temple in an arc, juking slightly left to right before banking right and slightly towards the darker, more cramped and seedy potions of the city. It was the most logical target.

 

That was the path a _reasonable_ person would take trying to escape—evade the Jedi at the temple. Evade ships the Coruscant Defense Forces would mobilize against them and try to hide where it was easier to find cover and get lost in the seething mass of life on Coruscant. Only that was precisely the problem with that path. It was predictable, and while it would make them more difficult to find, it wouldn’t take them off the grid entirely. They’d still be in places where the Jedi and Defense Forces _would_ go. They’d be trapped and caught and sooner rather than later.

 

Down was the only option. Down to the lowest reaches of the planet-spanning city. Down far enough to _almost_ reach the real ground. _Down_ to the places where light didn’t penetrate and the only people who venture where people who were either lost to the world above, or hiding from it. Most wouldn’t dare venture there. There were too many risks—disease, predators, gangs, criminals, the very psychologically unstable, the exceptionally desperate. Most _normal_ people wouldn’t dream of taking their chances in a place were night was no different from day. The undercity, the underworld, was a pit of immorality, darkness, and inferiority—or so the bigotry went.

 

Dean shuddered at the thought. The place, the people, they weren’t _evil_ or minions of the dark side. Well, some dabbled or even dwelled in the Dark Side or gave fuel to it with their actions, but most were not the scourge the snobby, elitists understood them to be—who themselves grossly misunderstood the nature of the force.

 

What the lower levels of Coruscant did provide _was_ a place where neither ordinary law enforcement nor _Jedi_ would travel, and where those who needed to disappear _could_. They had the Beckonstone. They could call the _Dream_. They needed a place to regroup and plan—and _heal_. Thought Dean didn’t like to admit it, he really couldn’t go on much longer this way. The Force had been getting more... painful, difficult to heal for weeks now, and after the... _events_ , he shuddered at the thought and the full implications, of the day, it was probably going to get much, much worse very quickly. He had exhausted himself maintaining the barrier and the projection for as long as he had. The additional ysalimir interaction had just added insult to injury. If he didn’t get into a healing trance—preferably with Cas, and maybe even Shran, to help _and_ get another Bacta injection soon, any discussion about defeating Azazel or saving Sam would be academic, because Dean wouldn’t make it.

 

So he plunged down, ever downward, skirting as close as he dared to the side of the temple ziggurat and then the natural mountain below. He wove around airspeeders, and ducked under fast- and slow-moving lanes of traffic, all while in the back of his mind, through the bond, he was aware of the three phantom shuttles—the decoys—and the Jedi’s attempts to take them out.

 

The Jedi had guns, turrets on the Temple Ziggurat roof! They were hidden in recessed bays around the outer edge, camouflaged, perhaps, no _definitely_ concealed with the Force. That was the only way they could have been hidden so that no one would notice. “Oh crap,” he muttered under his breath. It was one thing to have Jedi throwing force powers at you. It was another thing to have Jedi using Force-guided weaponry—anti-ship cannons—to hunt you down. “Cas,” he said in a warning tone, speaking out loud more to provide an outlet for his own frustration than anything else. He should be helping. He should be assisting Cas and Shran with the three decoy ships. But he knew he couldn’t—he didn’t have the energy there was just no way he could do that and keep himself together and heal the Force and _fly_.

 

 _I see them_ , Cas provided simply. Although by _see_ , Dan was sure he meant ‘sense in the Force.’

 

Resigned, Dean did what he could—he sunk, burrowed, into the Force, spreading out his senses, merging his perception with Cas’s and Shran’s, and everyone’s. He absorbed the telemetry the shuttle was spitting out, taking in the words and images as they scrolled across the screens, faster than a human mind should be able to comprehend. They immediately reverse projected outwards so he was _seeing_ , sensing, in three dimensions—well, four really. Because he saw not only where they, the obstacles in their path, the weapons, their pursuers, the phantom shuttle decoys, and their approximated destination were, he saw where they were all _going_ to be, the possibilities and trajectories spiraling out around him, as his mind chased down each possible combination in sequence, faster than he could think—he didn’t need to play them all out before his mind’s eye, the Force would _show him_ which paths would allow escape.

 

Behind them, one of the decoys—the one following the most logical path—took a hit, or rather, a series of hits. Two perfectly aimed turboblaster bolts shot out from the hidden gun emplacements ringing the Temple and hit it. Slam. Smack.

 

Beside him, Cas flinched, his shoulder knocking hard into Dean as the impact physically manifested itself through the Force. Dean sensed Shran react behind him too—his reaction more of a sudden... stiffening, rigidity. He realized they were trying to make the hits _real_. In a way absorbing the impact the blasts should have delivered to the shuttle had it been made of durasteel and composites instead of a pure Force illusion. Only _not_ because neither Cas nor Shran possessed the ability Sam had to absorb energy and direct it through the Force, and neither of them were the Healer, a conduit for the Force like Dean. So they had to put more Force into stabilizing the projection, making the decoy as solid as possible so the shots wouldn’t pass right through it and endanger innocent bystanders. But then they had to actually withstand the impact of the bolts, and while they could make the projection... flex... and they could use the Force as a shield to dispel the lasts, that just took _more_ of their own energy and force reserves. It was...nerve wracking to say the least. But they were right; Cas was right. Dean couldn’t help them now. Not with the projections. Even though it would be _easier_ for him to make the ships real... he felt the tearing sensation inside, the echo of the pain of earlier, the reminder that he wasn’t well. Wasn’t healed. Couldn’t _heal_ the Force fast enough. Not until he actually got rest, food, and medical attention. Not necessarily in that order.

 

His attention drifted back to the aftermath of the blaster attack. It felt like his mind had been wandering for minutes, when in reality it had been less than a second.

 

The hits would have taken out the starboard repulsors and the navsat. Would have if it was a real shuttle. They also would have caused enough shock to the passenger compartment to injure the passengers, unless the inertial dampeners were ramped up and calibrated, which, Dean realized—was not automatic with the top down like this. Without breaking his concentration on the world around him, the constantly changing, updating scenarios and possibilities, he reached out manually, and twisted the dial that would give them some proper inertial dampening should they hit or be hit by anything, or just have to make some _earnest_ moves. He immediately felt the strain on the harness ease, and the sense of weightlessness created by the steep dive level out. Good. So if he had to pull up abruptly, they wouldn’t all be squashed like bugs against their seats. Good to know. How could any self-respecting sentient being without a very active death wish _own_ a shuttle like this, he wondered. His impression of Master Zachariah sunk further in his view.

 

Cas was asking him something through their bond— _oh_... _Let it go?_

 

He wanted to know if Dean was prepared to deal with the fallout from Cas and Shran dropping the shared projection. He immediately understood why.

 

The Jedi were using battle meditation again, only this time, its effects were spread over every individual Master, Knight, and Padawan in the Temple who had turned out to help stop their escape. Five Jedi working as one were using their combined powers to reach out with the Force to try to put Shran’s projection—the one racing straight out—in a stasis field. Shran was taking his force projection through an impressive series of spirals and loops and corkscrews, banking sharply around buildings and ducking down under moving walkways to ‘evade’ the effects of his pursuers. If the ship was caught, the stasis field would act almost like a tractor beam. The Jedi could hold them in the air stationary until they or the Coruscant Defense Forces came to collect them. Which was happening now. Dean could feel the zippy little speeders weaving in and out of the traffic patterns and closing in on the faux shuttle’s location. If the CDF reached that projection and discovered it was fake, and the shared projection was left as it was—apparently damaged and disabled, that would leave only Cas’s skyward-fleeing projection and _them—the real shuttle_ for the Jedi to split their attention on.

 

There was a very good chance very few Jedi had _noticed_ the swiftly plummeting, steeply diving craft, that housed the real escapees, but all it would take was one keen mind, one alert Jedi, and it would be over far too quickly. There were hundreds of Jedi already tracking them. There could be a thousand or more without much effort, especially thanks to the battle meditation. Battle meditation not only allowed the Jedi to essentially share their gifts, their control of the force, to gain more thorough and pervasive focus in a combat situation, also allowed them to reach out and _interweave_ their abilities with other Jedi over a great distance. Given a little time, the Jedi at the Temple could easily reach out and incorporate every Jedi on Coruscant, every Jedi in orbit, and perhaps even Jedi farther out in the star system into their efforts.

 

Even Dean and Cas with their abilities as members of the Protectorate would provide little challenge to the combined and magnified efforts of so many.

 

But if Cas and Shran dropped the projection—it would startle the Jedi, break their concentration, for starters. Sure, there was a distinct possibility the Jedi already thought it _was_ a decoy, because the CDF forces were swarming towards the decoy caught in stasis—but then again, the CDF forces might be closer to that projection or might see a ship in stasis as a much more _urgent_ threat than one that was apparently disabled. A ship in stasis could break free, which was exactly what Shran would do with his projection if he could focus on it entirely.

 

Besides, the only reason why Cas’s projection hadn’t been targeted yet was because it was flying into range of the planetary defense stations. The sub-orbital weapons platforms would be better equipped to stop that shuttle, if it were real, and many of the Skyhooks it would soon be flying past were armed and armored. It would only be a matter of time... Dean sensed the buildup in energy coming from one of the tethered repulsor-supported estates and passed the information to Cas. He was able to _wobbly_ project the decoy shuttle evading the series of bright blue energy blasts that sprayed out from the edge of the skyhook.

 

And their problems were worse, because someone had noticed the real shuttle’s descent—that was the only explanation for the sudden _pressure_ Dean felt around him and through him, the sense of urgency in the Force. The threat might not even be in range yet, but it was coming.

 

 _Yes_ , he agreed, putting as much reassurance into that word as possible, drop the projection. He paused, started to slip back into his focus on their escape when an extra idea came to him. _Make it look like an explosion._

 

Cas gave the mental equivalent of a nod. _They risked destroying us and the Beckonstone with that attack. That was very... unexpected. Master Zachariah’s rhetoric suggests he would much rather capture us alive and retrieve his precious relic, especially since he seems to think I am a misguided Jedi and you are a confused child. One of the hits could have easily caused a secondary explosion. It will be—confusing, at least, to see the explosion, but no nearby damage, and it will allow us to better monitor their reaction._

 

 _Perhaps trick the CDF into backing off..._ Dean suggested.

 

Cas agreed.

 

Dean could feel the faint flicker in the Force as Cas passed on the information to Master Shran, and then suddenly the region was rocked by a loud explosion. The air heated and compressed, blasting out in a shock wave whose effects could be felt—just barely—even where they were, far from the projection Cas and Shran had just dropped. Around him, behind them, in the temple, the Jedi reacted. Some with shock and surprise—they either didn’t think the shuttle had been hit hard enough to explode—others with revulsion—they didn’t agree with the use of lethal force. Still others saw the illusion’s explosive disappearance for what it was—a distracting elimination of a decoy. The confusion and disagreement caused ripples of dissonance to travel through the collective of Jedi minds, weakening the Battle Meditation and throwing some minds out of the group trance altogether.

 

Even more affected were the CDF speeders. They seemed to slow and falter in their rush to get to the shuttle in stasis, their thoughts and fears broadcasting through the Force and into Dean’s mind with frightening clarity— _what about civilian casualties; does that mean this ship has to be a decoy; should we break off pursuit and investigate the explosion_.

 

The CDF’s hesitation and the actual weakening of the Battle Meditation would have provided enough of an opening for a _real_ shuttle to break free and resume its escape. In reality, Cas and Shran used the freeing of Force and mental resources to focus on believably maneuvering the two remaining projections away from their respective threats.

 

Satisfied by Cas’s nudge of reassurance, Dean returned his attention to their own escape. He was currently diving down along the side of the mountain that formed the base of the Temple. Although they’d already dropped over a kilometer, there were still many more kilometers of civilized Coruscant left beneath them. A walkway loomed seemingly out of nowhere and Dean brought the shuttle abruptly up and over, passing so close he could feel the air buffeting off of it as the shuttle slipped by. Then he dove, faster than before, with an apology to Cas and Shran.

 

Three intent _presences_ slipped into his awareness taking up space in pursuit on his mental map—two CDF officers on speeders and one very alert Jedi.

 

The CDF officers had been watching, waiting, and had finally caught sight of them when Dean had to take the shuttle out of its dive to avoid the walkway. Their minds were calm, relaxed even without a hint of excitement or fear. They were probably veteran officers—experienced in tracking and stopping all sorts of criminals (and would-be escapees). They would be difficult to shake, he realized as he took the shuttle into a barrel roll to avoid a balcony and someone’s personal shuttle, and even more difficult to deceive.

 

The third presence the Jedi was cautious, and more _prideful_ than the Jedi Order would probably approve, but fiercely determined. Her caution was the only reason every Jedi in the Temple hadn’t fixated on the real shuttle. She thought she’d felt something—probably the convergence of Force in Dean—that had drawn her attention, but she was having trouble finding it again and didn’t want to draw the attention of the others if she was wrong—if she was wrong, that would mean diverting resources from the real escapees. She was also, Dean realized, _unsettled_ by the Jedi attack on the “destroyed” decoy. It was against the Code to so recklessly attack life, especially when the sentient beings attacked were not fighting back and hadn’t been offered any sort of trial. Jedi were called upon to bring justice to the galaxy, but they didn’t sit in _judgment_ , but sought truth. So she was wary of bringing the other Jedi to this prey lest they strike out recklessly again.

 

Dean briefly wondered how much of that recklessness, or even Master Zachariah’s behavior in general was due to the influence of the Beckonstone... But he realized it was unlikely the Master had possessed the stone for very long, and if he’d been storing it in the Sith box, its ability to warp and influence his behavior would be very limited. So, no then, Master Zachariah’s corruption was mostly his own.

 

The Jedi, however, was confident. She believed she could stop the escaping shuttle on her own without needing to involve any other Jedi.

 

Dean felt the Force charge building in her, growing, he couldn’t let it hit them, and he couldn’t let the CDF forces catch them either.

 

He reached out with his mind and brushed Cas’s. Receiving wary confirmation—Cas was already straining with the effort of maintaining his illusion—Dean acted. Gritting his teeth against the strain, Dean reached out, building up an invisible shield behind the shuttle as he accelerated and took the ship through a corkscrewing dive that took the shuttle out and over three lanes of speeder traffic and down, down, and then under a sky bridge, passing so quickly he could hear frustrated curses and shouts of surprise from several pedestrians as the shuttle shot past with only mere millimeters of clearance. The shuttle’s engine’s screamed as the inertial dampeners strained—and failed—to compensate. Dean felt the press and tug of pulling Gs as he banked sharply to avoid the spire of a nearby building, the blood trying to drain from his head and threatening to make him black out. He drew on the Force flowing through him to boost his blood pressure and keep his brain properly oxygenated.

 

He’d hoped the proximity to other people would make the Jedi hesitate before she shot out to them. It did, but not enough. She just waited until she was sure she wouldn’t send the shuttle into any innocent bystanders. Her skill and range was _impressive_ Dean realized as he shuddered with the impact of the stun stasis field against the Force shield. She was trying to stop them and use her telekinesis to _grab_ the ship. And it almost worked. While the shield kept the stasis field from affecting them—and even saved Cas and Shran the effort of having to block or deflect the attack, Dean could feel the Force trying to grab and stop the vessel around him. The engines whined, the pitch rising up to a squeal, and their descent slowed, slamming everyone back against the seats, and making Dean’s stomach lurch. He _pushed_ back, jerking and shifting the craft side to side and bobbing up and down as much with his own control over the Force as with the ship’s actual engines. It wasn’t that she would likely overpower them and stop them dead in their tracks—they were still making progress. But with the sudden loss in speed and momentum, the CDF speeders were closing in.

 

Behind him Master Shran gasped in surprise as the Jedi’s attack hit the shield but didn’t stop them. Dean could feel Master Shran had been monitoring their attack and was braced for impact, only it didn’t come.

 

Cas responded without prompting—whether because Dean was actually responding through Cas or because Cas could sense Dean needed him to respond or whether Cas had independently anticipated, Dean wasn’t sure—politely scolding Shran for his surprise and reminding him to focus on maintaining the Force projection. There would be time for questions and surprise about Dean’s abilities later—but first they had to make it out of this mess alive, and that would require all three of them to use every ounce of Force at their disposal and not waste energy or duplicate efforts.

 

Dean didn’t focus on Shran’s response, but sensed the decoy Shran was projecting strengthen. Instead, Dean’s attention was consumed by his own Force efforts as another stasis field slammed into the shield and rocked the shuttle. He shook and pushed some more desperate to break the Jedi’s grasp.

 

It wasn’t working though. He could see the tendrils of the Force extending towards them. Each tendril was _elastic_ and sticky. Rather than grabbing them outright and trying to hold them in place, where Dean’s efforts might enable the shuttle to slip free of the Jedi’s grasp, they she was weaving more and more tendrils together, ensnaring tighter and tighter each time he tried to slip free.

 

The CDF speeders closed closers still as the escaping shuttle was slowed to ordinary cruising speeds, despite the plaintive whine of its engines. The speeders, Dean could tell now, were armed with Ion Cannons and mini tractor beams. The shuttle would be too much for one speeder to ensnare on its own—but together, their joint tractors and ion blasts would handily disable and hold the shuttle.

 

Dean had almost no warning as the coordinated ion blast slammed into the shuttle and skittered over the edges of Dean’s Force shield. It _stung_ him, threatening to overwhelm his nervous system as the EM-charged Force flowed through his body. The shuttle wobbled under his control, and he almost lost solidity of the shield when the speeders attempted to lock onto them. He had to drop into a steeper dive to avoid a particularly broad balcony and felt his consciousness flickering and fading around the edges as the blackness threatened to overwhelm him. He managed to avoid slamming into the balcony and narrowly cleared a speeder traveling more or less perpendicular to them, but he knew they wouldn’t last much longer like this.

 

Wincing, he did the only thing he could to protect them—Dean reached out and shoved back with the Force, pushing against the Jedi’s mind and breaking her focus. He tore at the tendrils that composed the net that threatened to hold them fast, snapping them off, severing their ties with the shuttle. He hated to do it. Dean despised using the Force in a way that was so painful and potentially harmful to a fellow Force user, especially one who was a potential ally—there was nothing about this Jedi to set them on different sides but her loyalty to Master Zachariah and those Councilors who’d allowed their greed and arrogance to supersede their service of the Force. He could feel her reeling away shocked as the shuttle shot forward again, surging with the power of the fully opened throttle and straining engines. Then they were falling, diving powerfully into the sunless depths of Coruscant, dropping so fast the inertial dampeners were near useless, the gravity threatened to overwhelm Dean, but he clung to consciousness opening the flow of Force through him.

 

The Jedi in the Temple were alerted to their companion’s plight. She was drawing attention as her pain rippled through the Force. Their pursuing CDF agents’ minds were humming with confusion as their quarry, so close to caught seemed to almost—jump—forward, as if launched from a sling shot or popping through a micro hyperspace jump. Beside and behind him, Cas and Shran were struggling with their projections trying to keep ahead of a barrage of Force powers and weapons fire while avoiding harm to bystanders.

 

They had little time. The CDF agents would take only a few more heartbeats to make the decision to follow them, despite the danger of the planet’s lower depths. The Jedi would rally around their injured knight and soon figure out the source of her pain.

 

 _Now. Now. Now is the time. Give in..._ the Force insisted, thrumming and swelling within Dean. _Life_ was pleading for him to act—so tied to his fate was that of the universe.

 

Dean passed the message to Shran and Cas—destroy the projections. He knew they would comply. Then he surrendered, the flow of Force _open_ within him as he let go.

 

The shuttle seemed to disappear in a blinding flash, leaving its pursuers momentarily blinded and buffeted by the shockwave that followed.

 

Dean could feel Shran and Cas let go of their projections—Cas’s seemed to slip into the path of one of the turboblasters the Jedi were firing from the Temple while Shran’s appeared to _evaporate_ in thin air, much like a small ship might if it had cloaking technology—or how it would appear if a Jedi were to put all his efforts into shielding a ship from view.

 

The pursuing CDF agents were baffled, already absorbed in radio chatter if the buzz of communications Dean was picking up from him was any indication.

 

The Jedi in the Temple were diverting their attention also, swarming around the disoriented knight, full of concern. No one seemed to know what had happened, and if the Force was at all on their side, they’d be long gone before anyone figured it out.

 

Dean put the rest of his energy into hiding the ship. He pulled his presence and the presence of everyone on the shuttle _sideways_ into the Force. Slipping into the stream, letting it flow around them, undisturbed. The shuttle became a shadow, hiding from light, prying eyes, and earnest Force users as Dean guided it down, ever downward. The Force steered them around balconies and walkways—and then, as they got lower—away from predators, ancient signs, rubble, and the other hazards that threw seemed to throw themselves in the shuttle’s path.

 

Dean’s hold on consciousness was slipping, but he knew the Force wouldn’t let him succumb until they were safe. Finally, after they’d traveled so far down it felt like they must have bisected the planet, the Force guided him through a landing, tucking the shuttle into a tiny alcove formed by the overhang of a derelict and long-abandoned ancient building and the unequal protrusions of two neighboring buildings. They might have been on the actual ground or one of the lowest non ground levels of the original buildings of Coruscant, either way, the platform on which the shuttle had set down felt solid enough, and they were deep enough it was unlikely anyone would ever venture far enough to find them.

 

Unless, of course, they followed the ship’s ident beacon. Dean hadn’t spared it any attention as he’d known the Force projections and shielding had thoroughly obscured it. But now... He reached out with the Force and sent a crippling blast through the electrical system powering the beacon. He felt it fry, melt, and stop transmitting, and then the blackness overtook him.

 

He’d done his part—healed the Force, found the Beckonstone, and completed their escape. Now the rest would be up to Cas—and Shran, if he decided to keep helping. Dean had faith if there was a way to get to Sam in time to stop him from giving in to Azazel completely—Cas would find it.

 

 

 **Chapter 29:**

 _Korriban_ (present day)

 

It was sometime later when Sam regained awareness.  He didn’t know if hours, days, or even _months_ had passed since he was last aware.  Sam had the vague sense that he’d been aware of himself, of Azazel, a few times since being possessed, but the details—including the when and where—remained elusive, thoughts darting away in the back of his mind.

 

He was making love to Ruby… or at least his _body_ was. He still had no control, but he could _feel_ everything, and he was aware of Darth Azazel’s thoughts—and Ruby’s too. As they writhed together, it was almost as if all three of them were stuffed in his body, crammed in his skin.

 

Azazel seemed inordinately pleased. At first, Sam thought it was because he was _finally_ (Azazel’s thoughts, not his) serving his purpose—the Chosen One playing host to the Wraith; the two greatest Force Users united, body and soul. But Sam soon realized, Azazel was still _annoyed_ with him. Until Sam gave himself over _willingly_ Azazel would not be satisfied. Azazel was more powerful now, but not as powerful, as in control, as he would be when Sam finally relented.

 

No, it was something else entirely. External. Distant. People and choices in a different place, finally making the moves, the choices, that told him—told Azazel—the time would soon be right.

 

 _The Healer was coming._

 

Sam felt the bile rise in his throat, felt as Azazel laughed in his mind, forcing the acid down. Twitching within Ruby with more fervor.

 

Whatever pleasure Sam had allowed himself to take from the feel of Ruby moving around him, whatever enjoyment he’d felt from having so much _power_ within him, he was instantly sick with the realization of what Darth Azazel planned to do. He was going to kill Dean. Sam’s vision. This was how it would come true. Months on the run, training with Ruby… it was all a lie. A ruse to ensure Sam mastered the skills—the Dark Side—that he would need to best serve his _Master_. All that time fleeing. Trying to escape, and it was all for nothing He’d just ensured his own demise; guaranteed he would murder his brother.

 

 **Chapter 30:**

(meanwhile) _Korriban_ (present day)

 

Azazel smiled, gleeful at the feel of the Chosen One’s body moving and responding to his command. He had made great progress in the day or so since he’d slipped into his new skin… his permanent skin. The Chosen One had even been responding to Ruby’s touch, to the caress of Azazel’s mind. But now… now he had recoiled again, hiding out in a dark corner of his mind, pulling his powers out of Azazel’s reach.

 

The Dark Lord of the Sith was not happy. He angered at the withdrawal. Ruby shifted her hips against him then and pure pleasure coursed through his veins. _Ahh…_ Well. He supposed he couldn’t really blame the Chosen One for his stubbornness. Azazel had known all along the strength of the bond between the brothers— _opposing warriors_ —he scoffed at the ridiculous thought. Because, _seriously_ the Healer wasn’t much of a threat, just a sorry excuse for the Protectorate’s millennia of planning and preparation. That bond was necessary to bring them together as he was doing now.

 

It would just take a little more time and the Chosen One would come around. Perhaps once the brother was dead, the Chosen One would shed his foolish ideals and accept his fate, his Destiny. Together, then, they would mark the dawn of the new era. The eternal reign of the Dark Side.

 

 

 **Chapter 31:**

(meanwhile) _Undercity, Coruscant_ (present day)

 

“Dean, Dean!” Cas Tiel’s concerned exclamation broke through the surreal silence that had fallen since their unorthodox landing.

 

Shran watched with muddled confusion as Tiel—Cas—scrambled in the front seat unfastening his and Winchester’s harnesses.

 

It would take some getting used to, calling these strange, new companions by their preferred names. Of course, at this moment, worrying about calling Winchester “Dean” was far from Shran’s mind. He was still stuck on processing what had happened.

 

 

He’d been distracted—or rather occupied by his own Force projection—for most of their descent. But after the unsettlingly clear Force _command_ from Cas with precise instructions on how and when to drop the projection, he’d paid enough attention to know that their escape had been... impossible. Or at least he would have wholeheartedly asserted it was if he wasn’t now sitting in the back of Master Zachariah’s stolen shuttle shaking. They’d _dropped_ —no maybe _floated_ was a better term, only their downward movement had been improbably fast—after the ship had been released (and Shran was still a little vague on how that had happened, and he wasn’t entirely sure he really wanted to know), the movement, the _smoothness_ and speed of it—after the initial shudder as they were released—was unlike any engine-powered movement he’d experienced. It was the Force, it had to have been, only he wasn’t sure _how_. Shran had levitated down the side of a few buildings, and he’d known Jedi pilots who had managed to use the Force to control a crash landing and to anticipate and avoid attacks, and there were those who successfully plotted hyperspace jumps using the Force instead of a navcomp, but he’d never heard of anyone flying _with_ the Force. Dean had—the shuttle had been falling too fast, so fast all the buildings passed in an impenetrable blur, and yet the flight was smooth—Shran hadn’t even felt the tug of inertial dampeners after that initial surge. They had avoided hitting any obstacles, although now, looking up, Shran could see more jumbled buildings and overpasses than open space, and the shuttle had seemed to _float_ sideways into this strange alcove.

 

That was another thing... how _deep_ they were. No one—at least no one Shran had heard of—had traveled this deep into Coruscant, this close to the surface, in centuries at least. This part of the city, the undercity, was a relic of the forgotten past. Republic records didn’t even recall a time when the base buildings of Coruscant had been built or when people had lived close enough to touch the _ground_. He’d heard rumors, sure, everyone had, and there were many popular folk tales, and speculation—stories of speeder gangs, forgotten homeless sentients, and terrible monsters that lived in the depths. But none of it was supposed to be real. Okay, well there were fairly reputable rumors that the Exchange had bases and safe houses down here, although not quite this low, and he’d chased enough leads on black market arms dealing to know Czerka Corp. traded their really illegal stuff—thermal detonators based off forbidden Sith technology rumored to be recovered from the ruins of Korriban, for example—at bazaars just below the lowest habited (habitable) levels of the planet-spanning city. But this...

 

The buildings down here were derelict, long abandoned, standing only due to their robust, weather-resistant construction—mostly ferrocrete and durasteel alloys—and because this deep down, very little precipitation or refuse fell enough to contaminate or contribute to the weathering. The buildings served as supports for the thriving, teeming city far above, but down here, it was dark, empty, deserted. The sunlight didn’t reach and it seemed every visible surface—at least the ferrocrete ones—was coated in a sort of iridescent slime mold that looked like an engine lube slick in the dim light.

 

Only, now he—they—were down here. Dean had guided them. And Shran didn’t know what to do, or what to make of it, because they didn’t have any supplies with them, beyond their lightsabers and the creepy Sith box, and he was pretty sure that jolt of electricity that had arced across the flight console just after they landed had disabled the ship. He’d realized he was breaking with the Order, staking his allegiance with Winchester, and after seeing the highly destructive Sith artifact Master Zachariah was keeping in his quarters, Shran even felt a little more comfortable with his decision. It was probably a good thing that the Jedi wouldn’t be able to trace them here or activate the shuttle’s tracking beacon. But now they were... stuck.

 

“Master Shran,” Cas Tiel’s voice came again more insistent.

 

“Yes,” he responded, looking up and doing his best to focus on something more immediate to their continued survival.

 

“I need your assistance,” Cas responded, his tone serious bordering on grim. “Dean is... not well. He was still weak from being disconnected with the Force, and the Beckonstone—lashed out. It tried to kill him. If it was just that, even in my weakened state, I could heal him, but this attack has drained him beyond my current abilities.”

 

Shran didn’t like the sound of this. He wasn’t in any condition to do any healing and his experience—was it only a few hours ago?—in the turbolift echoed painfully through him. He tried to stifle an involuntary shudder. Cas didn’t appear to be done speaking, so Shran nodded in acknowledgment and waited for Cas to continue.

 

“Dean deactivated the homing beacon, but it is still not safe to stay here. Many entities that feed from the Dark Side dwell in these depths, and even contained, the Beckonstone calls to them. We must move to a safer location. I can carry Dean, but I need your help with the box. “

 

“Of course,” Shran replied. He was wondering where _safe_ would be, though. Even before Cas mentioned it, he had felt them, dark presences pressing against his mind. Threatening, circling. They were drawn to the Beckonstone in its darkness, yes, and they were certainly attracted to Shran and Cas with their Force sensitivity, but it was Dean that drew them in. In his unconscious state he was _less_ guarded than he would normally be. He was an indigo river of Force and he radiated with its power, and everything was drawn to him. Wanted to _drink_ from him. Shran shuddered as the image tore through his mind. _The problem with prophecies is that we always try to_ direct _and interpret what they mean. We try to change them. We fear. And in doing so we are shocked and often harmed._ The phrases from Miss’Ouri Ot’Kla’s journal came to mind and Shran shuddered with the realization. The Healer sounded so... _positive_ good, like a resource of the Light. Shran had thought so, and in thinking he had fallen into the trap. Colored the prophecy with his own values and perspective, until he couldn’t see Dean for what he really was—or how he could be harmed and abused by the Dark and the Light. The Dark Side wanted to drink from him. It hungered for the purity of the Force that flowed out of him. The Light Side, if they were to acknowledge what he was, would use him as a weapon, would try to control him to stamp out the Dark. But Dean was a person, and the gift he had with the Force was for the _Force_ and not meant to be wielded by or made to serve the petty whims of those who thought they could control the Universe. Shran shuddered at the realization. He was—overcome by the need to _protect_ the Healer and keep him safe from the forces that would destroy him and with him the Force.

 

“I will help,” Shran stammered, his throat suddenly dry, “of course, but how will we... where is... surely you can feel how _hungry_ they are for him. We’re trapped and there is no place safe and—”

 

Cas gave him an amused smile of the sort he would expect to come from Dean. “We are not trapped. I can call the _Dream_ to us—Dean’s ship, our home—and I can give Dean the care he needs there. We just can’t land here,” he made a sweeping gesture, taking in the narrow alcove into which the tiny shuttle was wedged, and it will be safer under the cover of night. But we must move now.” As he finished speaking he gathered Dean into his arms with the same grace and tenderness Shran had witnessed at the temple, and with a little aid from the Force, alighted from the shuttle and dropped silently to the platform below.

 

Shran scrambled to catch up, his hands flying over the complicated pattern of restraints they’d woven around the Sith box. He hated to touch it, now that he knew its power and had seen what it contained. The last restraint let go with a snap and he let out a shaky sigh of relief. The Force was prodding him and he knew they needed to move quickly. “Where will we go. Is there a... secure place we can land and wait for your ship?” he asked as he slid over the side of the shuttle and hoisted the container along with him.

 

“There are some literal aspects about being the Guide,” Cas replied with a truly Dean-like smirk; then, more seriously, “the Force will show me the way.” He set off in the direction they’d been headed, carefully picking his way along a narrow path that followed the side of the building that formed the shallowest side of the alcove in which Dean had landed.

 

Shran followed cautiously, keeping a firm grip on the Sith box and ensuring it didn’t open. It was somewhat ironic he realized—he was a Jedi Shadow who’d trained his entire life to hunt down, seek out, and destroy Sith relics and to find and subdue practitioners of the Dark Side and those who stood against the Order, and here he was, carrying a Sith relic, apparently to use, and following someone accused of using the Dark Side who definitely stood against the Order. Irony aside, he was still disturbed that they were keeping and planning to _use_ the Beckonstone, when every instinct told him to destroy it.

 

“It is the only way to find the one who can lead us to the Chosen One. It is the only way we have a hope of stopping Darth Azazel before he destroys the Force and the universe with it,” Cas murmured, seeming to sense Shran’s thoughts. “But that is Dean’s story to tell,” he added, proactively silencing any questions Shran might have asked.

 

Shran snapped his mouth shut with an audible ‘click,’ and returned his focus to their surroundings. There was _something_ to the right of the path that might have been actual ground. But it looked black and sticky, almost tar-like in the dim shadows. He certainly didn’t want to step on it. He took a closer look at their surroundings. There was little light. Gray haziness filtered down through several kilometers of buildings above them, but it wasn’t anything approaching sunlight. The only other sources of illumination were a smattering of ancient cracked glowpanels that seemed to still feebly give off light and the eerie luminance of a sort of bioluminescent algae that cast a green tinge over everything. The buildings were, as he’d observed upon landing, derelict and largely slime-covered, but there were places where the walls were bare and slightly oxidized durasteel and pockmarked ferrocrete shown through. The path widened into something approaching a plaza, a broad gap between the bases of several buildings. Overhead he could see where the buildings widened, cantilevered out over the abyss below, more space taken up by jutting balconies and walkways. But once, in some long-forgotten time, this space must have been a court yard or gathering place—perhaps a large public square or market—open to the sky above. It would be broad enough to land a ship the size of the _Iriaz Dream_ here, but there would be no way to fly it in. The sky was simply too full of buildings.

 

They continued on in silence as Cas, still carrying an unconscious Dean, turned away from the plaza just short of reaching the far side, and led them through an opening into the dark and gaping maw of the building to their left.

 

Shran followed, teeming with apprehension. The air inside was dank, stale, and tomb-like. He could feel the presence of life around them and see evidence in the nooks and crannies of the many animals that made their homes. Off to the right he could see a faint glow emanating from the control pad of a turbolift. It looked like a more ancient, decrepit version of the lifts that moved people among the habitable buildings above, and he wondered if these still worked. They probably did, after a fashion. Lifts were usually built to last with components that endured and functioned far beyond what was reasonable. If the glow panels were still functioning, it stood to reason the lifts were probably getting power too. He was pretty sure something similar had been documented on Taris several thousand years ago, before the Sith had bombed that planet into a twisted, melted, blob of slag. He shuddered at the mental image. The Sith... they kept rising, rising and trying to rule the galaxy—the universe—and it seemed as if it would never stop.

 

“It is not the Sith’s doing alone,” Cas Tiel said, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying only because it was projected through the Force. “The Jedi push towards the light because they think it is _good_ and good can do no wrong. What they do not seem to realize is the Force is neither good nor evil, light nor darkness, peace nor war. It is all things. All life as we know it to exist. It is a spectrum and the balance between. An individual making choices, good or bad or in between has little effect on the Force. My choice to do a deed we would deem good does not force another to act with malice. The decision to pass through life with as much _neutrality_ as possible does nothing to buffer or force the actions of others. All are One with the Force and the Force’s spectrum can absorb them all. But the Jedi Order pushes and prods—it is a concerted effort by millions applied to the choices and values of billions. And though gradual, it is enough over time to tip the balance to the Light.”

 

“It destabilizes the Force,” Shran murmured.

 

“Yes,” Cas confirmed. “And when the balance shifts enough, the Dark Side rises. It is swift and sweeping and blatant where the Light Side is slow and incremental and subtle. But it always rises, because there is no choice. The Force cannot exist on an endpoint. Understand it is at least as much the _absolutism_ that wreaks havoc as it is the overabundance of use of the Light Side or Dark Side.”

 

“The motivation and philosophy matter,” Shran realized.

 

Cas paused in front of him, seeming to listen or perhaps seeking Guidance from the Force, his head tipped to the side.

 

Shran looked in the direction Cas’s ears seemed to searching. In the faint glow of a distant glowpanel, he saw a reflected glint—eyes. Three pairs of eyes, low to the ground, accompanied by a sense of... wonder, not hunger. There were animals there watching them, but they were not predators, or at least, they had now designs on harming the small party of Force Users.

 

Cas seemed to nod towards the eyes and kept walking.

 

Shran could see a lighter grey up ahead, which probably meant they were close to passing through this building.

 

“The Jedi don’t create the Sith, but they ensure they come back and cause as much destruction as they do. The Sith—or something like them—moving alone would be... like a blaster bolt—swift and hot and destructive, but petering out after impact. Contained in the damage any one can do. By its nature, the Dark Side is swift and seductive and burns bright, but it does not last long for it consumes everything in its path and there is nothing left to sustain it. But the Jedi build up a huge reserve of fuel, like forests full of tinder in the path of a wildfire. So, the Sith burn longer and hotter and cause more devastation.”

 

Shran could see that. It made sense. “Is that why no one on the Council would—” he trailed off.

 

“Listen to you? Acknowledge the prophecy?” Cas asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

Cas nodded. “It is why the prophecy is ‘Lost’ in the first place. The very idea that the Light side could cause harm or that the application of the Order’s laws and ideals could lead to such an end is incomprehensible to the Order. They deal in absolutes, just like the Sith. They do not accept Dean for what he is, because they cannot _comprehend_ the true nature of the Force or the vital role he plays in the continued existence of the Force. Tell me, Master Shran, what _is_ the Light Side? What is the Dark Side?”

 

The question so surprised him that Shran stumbled over something—naked gnawed bones of a long-dead rodent, by the looks of it—and shuddered. He regained his footing and quickened his steps. The Light Side was good, peace, calm, but it was also that which was not the Dark Side. The definition was circular—exclusive. The two sides defined... two. Opposites. Absolutes with no middle. It was so obvious. There was so much of the Force they mischaracterized or failed to see because it didn’t fit into the neat little boxes.

 

“You see.” A statement, not a question.

 

“Yes, I see,” Shran confirmed as he followed Cas out of the building and into the grey-ish twilight-like light that existed in the canyons between buildings. It was _cold_ down here, and Shran shivered with it. Only, maybe it was the realization and not the cold that shook him. “We’re not all like that. Some of us understand there are choices in between.” It sounded defensive, but it was true, and that astonished him nearly as much as the need to seek Cas Tiel’s approval.

 

“I know. I was a Jedi once, too,” Cas said softly, only his voice carrying the words, no boost from the Force. “And that is why there is hope.”

 

A new layer of understanding fell over Shran, and he breathed a little more freely. He’d been holding himself tightly and his muscles had cramped and clenched. As he breathed out and relaxed, he could feel the difference in the new space. Not right here on the edge of the building where many dark things lurked, but ahead of them, into the new open space, the air felt lighter. “The Force is more balanced here,” he observed.

 

“Yes,” Cas agreed. “It will provide us shelter. I need to heal Dean a little before I try to contact the _Dream_.” With that explanation, Cas set out across the new open space, heading for a doorway. It was clear of debris and opened into a very small room with no other open doors highly trained Force-users who were not members of the order, but they still seemed like Jedi to him, especially because Cas had the same... body as Novak. Shran just wasn’t accustomed to seeing Jedi with... attachments being so open about it. But the more he was around them, the more he realized their... pairing felt right, natural, and they were clearly so much stronger in the Force together than apart. He wondered... no, it had drifted past wonder into dawning realization on a fast track towards certainty—the absolutes the Order clung to, blindly, and despite evidence to the contrary, meant the Order was keeping its members from such... harmonious completion, limiting their understanding of the Force and the Universe and preventing them from realizing the full extent of their power. His mind drifted to the uprisings. The people who seemed to be following this Sith Lord without realizing it. They were angry because they had given of themselves to the Jedi—sacrificed children to their teaching, severed familial bonds, faced loss and loneliness, only to be let down by the Jedi, to have their concerns and needs coldly rated against the scope of the Republic and found lacking, to realize their children had become Jedi... who couldn’t relate to human affairs—family, love, fear, commitment to each other—because of these they knew not. And the others... those turned away for being “discovered” too old, knowing they had the Force within them, feeling it’s pull and their own potential, but never instructed, never allowed to realize their complete selves, while facing a lifetime of supervision and suspicion from the Order, for fear they would fall to the Dark Side. If the order were a little different, a little more in touch with the entirety of the Force, would those people have fallen under the Dark Lord’s sway? Would Lord Azazel have ever come to be?

 

Shran stole another glance at Cas, whose lips were now pressed gently to Dean’s forehead as he whispered unheard words into Dean’s hair. Cas lifted his head slightly, _That is how Lord Azazel came to be_ , he said through the Force.

 

Shran blinked and nodded, still surprised with Cas’s ease of communication. “So, the Jedi really did create this situation.”

 

“They were instrumental in its evolution,” Cas murmured.

 

Shran let it sink in. Right now the Jedi certainly weren’t doing anything to make the situation any better, either. Maybe Shran could change that. He was just one being and the Order would probably consider his actions indication of his betrayal, but still... “I will help you. Let me know what I can do to make this right.”

 

Cas was silent, focused intently on Dean, whose features were finally showing some color.

 

Shran could tell the Healer was breathing steadily too, the rise and fall of his chest a soothing reassurance that their only hope still lived. Shran thought perhaps Cas hadn’t heard him, but then Cas’s hand stopped glowing, and he turned to face Shran with a smile.

 

“Azazel has an assistant he kept hidden from the protectorate for millennia. Perhaps now we have an ally outside the prophecy as well.” Cas sounded relieved, happy, but his voice was very weak. The healing had taken a lot out of him.

 

Shran swallowed, “I will not disappoint you.”

 

Cas nodded again and shifted Dean, who was still unconscious, so he was sitting, propped up against Cas’s chest. Cas reached down and fiddled with something attached to Dean’s belt. A few moments later, he produced what looked like a Beckoncall, only not... it was clearly integrated into something that looked like a comlink with the display screen of a small datapad built in. Cas pushed the button that would normally activate a ship’s automated slave circuitry and then activated the comlink. “Chevy, we are on the surface of Coruscant some distance from the Temple. Dean is injured, and we need an... extraction,” Cas spoke.

 

A moment later a series of trills and beeps emanated from the comlink—it sounded like a droid—while Cas focused intently on the screen.

 

Something, perhaps the noise, made Dean stir, and Shran winced with Dean as he flinched and grimaced with pain as he came to.

 

“Wha? Chevy?” Dean murmured.

 

“She is tracing our location and will see how close she can land the _Dream_ ,” Cas answered.

 

Dean glanced around taking in his surroundings and seeming to take stock of himself. His eyes landed on Shran. “So, you’re gonna help us?”

 

“I—yes,” Shran answered.

 

The comlink trilled again.

 

“She wants to talk to you,” Cas said, with a hint of amusement, as he passed the device to Dean.

 

Shran looked at Cas questioningly. “Chevy is Dean’s astromech droid, S8V1. She’s very overprotective.”

 

Shran figured he looked a little dumbfounded, but he hadn’t heard of an overprotective droid before.

 

“I’m just glad she’s onboard; it makes flying the _Dream_ here much easier,” Dean said after a quick, quiet, one-sided conversation with the droid. “Although,” he said as he shifted and cringed in pain, “she sure would have made escaping easier.”

 

“Surely she would have been immobilized by a restraining bolt—” Shran started.

 

Dean cast him a sly look. “It takes a lot more than a restraining bolt to contain Chevy,” he said, his voice full of pride. “My mother made her.”

 

Shran’s jaw dropped at the revelation, and he quieted.

 

The comlink beeped and chirped.

 

“Chevy says there’s no clear path in to any of the possible landing sites on this sector of the planet, but if we can make it up 3 levels, there’s a structurally intact causeway a klick and a half away that can fit the _Dream_ and it has a clear approach if she drops in from level 123 on repulsors,” Dean explained, looking to Cas expectantly. “I know you’re exhausted—”

 

“I have enough strength to get us there,” Cas replied. Cas inclined his head towards Shran, “You will carry the box?”

 

“Yes,” Shran agreed. “You will eventually tell me why we need it?”

 

“As soon as we’re out of the system,” Dean bit out with a grunt of pain as he tried to haul himself more upright.

 

Cas immediately stooped to help him, and Shran noticed for the first time how careful they both were to keep Dean’s bare skin from touching or even brushing against any surfaces. He shuddered at the thought. If Dean had reacted so strongly to the objects in the Temple, how powerful could this ancient level with tens of thousands of years of history affect him?

 

Shran almost offered to help, but remembered how Dean had reacted to healing him and thought better of it. He didn’t want to chance making things worse.

 

Cas pulled Dean to his feet, wrapping an arm around him and under his shoulders so Dean would be supported as he walked.

 

“Okay, Chevy, we’re on our way. Send the location and route map and we’ll meet you at the rendezvous point,” Dean said into the comlink.

 

Chevy answered with warble followed by several accusatory bleeps whose meaning even Shran could guess.

 

Dean chuckled grimly, intent on the screen.

 

Shran stood up, pulling the ungainly box with him and looked over Dean’s shoulder. Sure enough, a wire-frame schematic sprang to life on the screen providing a surprisingly accurate 2D representation of their surroundings. A dot blinked on the model and a pink line extended from it to another blinking dot, wending its way through the wireframe buildings in between.

 

“Chevy says there’s a working turbo lift two buildings over—we just have to climb one staircase to the next level here,” Dean jabbed a finger at the map, “and then take this causeway, because the most recent scan of this area shows some sort of debris blocking the ground path.” Dean looked up and shrugged, flinching a little in apparent pain. “The scan’s 50 years old, but I doubt it’s gotten any clearer.”

 

Dean and Cas led the way out of the alcove and down the length of the plaza, which narrowed into a pathway.

 

Shran spotted more of the black tar-like goop in one of the nearby unpaved patches and wondered if, perhaps, it had once been a garden, or otherwise filled with vegetation. When they reached the second building, there were a few chunks of ferrocrete, broken off from a ledge of some sort that had once skirted the second story of the building. Cas helped Dean over the rubble, managing without a stumble.

 

Shran looked warily at the crumbled remains of the ledge, hoping its apparent instability didn’t represent the structural integrity of the entire building. He doubted any of them were up to dodging falling chunks of the building. A few seconds later they were across the threshold and inside.

 

It took a few moments, but Shran’s eyes adjusted to the light which was _brighter_ than it had been outside. It took him a moment to realize why, but the suffuse glow finally clued him in. There were far more working glowpanels in here, which made sense considering this was the building that was supposed to have a functioning turbolift.

 

“Wow,” Dean murmured in surprise, drawing Shran’s attention from the artfully designed glowpanels ringing the walls and adorning the ceiling. Dean opened his mouth to speak again, but broke off in a fit of coughs, his body shaking with the strain.

 

Cas pulled Dean closer to him, his arm wrapped tight, holding Dean to his chest. He made shushing noises to try to quiet the hacking, sounding reassuring, but Shran could see the fear and sadness in Cas’s eyes.

 

Dean stilled finally, with a rattling breath, and straightened up, taking in his surroundings once again. “Lo—” he coughed again, but only once, “looks like this was someplace very… impressive. Important. A long time ago.” He looked to Cas expectantly, “I know it wasn’t like people lived down here when you were first alive, but did they tell any stories or…”

 

Cas seemed to struggle to pull his eyes away from Dean and take in their surroundings. “Oh,” he said, eyes brightening. “If we’re where I think we are, this could be the original Hall of Governance… from the first civilization on Coruscant. The… murals look right from what I recall of the history books and from the library at Ossus.”

 

Shran took in the faint stretches of color on the walls, which he now realized were colored, inlaid stones of a variety of sizes and shapes, laid out to make pictures. He could just barely make out images of people in grand robes, and a few things that looked like the cumbersome weapons Jedi had wielded before they’d figured out how to safely power lightsabers. It was fascinating, and it was still here, lost to the world above, only they couldn’t stay. His eyes drifted around the large foyer, taking in the tall, arched ceilings glowing down from high overhead, the unfamiliar metal frames surrounding the glowpanels on the entry level, stopping suddenly when he noticed the darker tones of one image blacks and reds on one side, blues and greens and white on the other, and in the middle—a figure colored in indigo. He looked more closely. There were several images portrayed—a duel, the indigo figure falling, darkness rising, and then indigo tinted all of the last image, spreading out, as the figure rose again, the Darkness banished, the Light at bay, balance restored.

 

“How is that even possible?” Dean murmured.

 

“Perhaps these events have happened before or they were foretold long before Lord Azazel rose the first time,” Cas answered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

 

“If the Council could see this—” Shran started, then reality set in. “It wouldn’t make a difference.” He noticed one part of the mural—which he now realized was the only complete, clear mural in the entire room, all the glowpanels around it worked, too, so it was the most clearly lit—where the figures on the _Light_ of the mural had their backs turned to the happenings depicted in the rest of the image. “They knew we would see this? The Force—” his voice trailed off again.

 

Dean nodded and then doubled over in pain. “It’s getting worse. We have to go or there will not be time. The—stairs.” He gestured weakly with his hand that wasn’t draped over Cas’s shoulders.

 

A broad, sweeping staircase, made from carved stone and trimmed with now-tarnished gilded railings, still hinting at its original grandeur opened just to the right of the mosaic. Cas helped Dean up the steps, and Shran followed. Their steps were quicker now, less hesitant. Shran knew Cas was leading Dean along as fast as he could manage, probably faster than was safe or wise, but now Shran could _feel_ the urgency in the Force prodding them onward. He was reminded of—was it only a few hours ago? When he’d carried the ysalimir and its frame, trailing confusedly after Cas as he carried Dean in his arms. Only then he had doubted, been confused, not understood what was happening. Now… now Shran still wasn’t sure he understood, but he knew enough, could feel the Force strongly enough to understand what it was telling him, to heed its call.

 

The staircase placed them in a narrow hallway, dark to either side, with the turbolift dead ahead, bathed in the golden light of still more functioning glowpanels. Cas reached out to press the ancient button that would summon the lift, and the doors opened silently, as if the lift within had been waiting, waiting for them always ready.

 

“Okay, that’s a little creepy,” Dean admitted as they stepped inside.

 

Cas pressed his hand to another sensor, and a few moments later, the doors opened again on what was presumably the third level of the building. They stepped out, the door closing behind them, and followed the path highlighted on Dean’s datapad. It led them through another hallway, lined in functioning glow panels and out the opposite side of the building where a long, broad causeway, stretched onwards, wending its way between the tangle of buildings at ground level. Light streamed down, diffuse from the various interruptions of buildings and walkways and balconies and traffic lanes high above, it shone almost like moonlight here, reflecting off the almost opalescent surface of the composite that made up the causeway.

 

Shran wondered how it was so… clean that the surface almost looked white, but realized more precipitation reached this area since the sky overhead was considerably more open than the area in which Dean had landed them. “So what now?” he asked, looking down at the real ground three levels below, a little queasy with the closeness, sensing the weight of the buildings and so much life stretching high, high above them.

 

“We just follow this… pass a few more buildings and it opens up into an elevated terrace plaza and… Chevy should be landing soon,” Dean answered, his voice sounding weak. “I—”

 

“You don’t need to say, we need to hurry, I understand,” Shran answered, nodding to Cas that they could set off again.

 

They soon realized why the path was inaccessible on ground level when they passed a huge hulk of a crashed ship twisted and melted, it had taken chunks out of the surrounding buildings, and Shran realized its impact had probably shaken loose parts of the ledge outside the Hall of Governance. The risk of the relative openness of this section meant it was much easier for _everything_ to reach the surface. Finally though, they passed three more buildings, cylindrical hulks that narrowed into spires and then seemed to weave and interconnect far overhead. On the other side, sure enough, the causeway opened up into a broad expanse, but there was no ship in sight, and Dean—Dean was barely moving now, stumbling along as Cas half-carried him. Shran felt an echo of their exhaustion through the Force, his own body beginning to tire under the strain of carrying the box. He realized it had probably been well over a day since Dean and Cas had slept or had any sort of rest. He had lost track of time himself, what with traversing the planet, sneaking around the temple, breaking out, and then this long confusing trek across the planet’s underworld, combined with the temporary disconnection from the Force when he was in the ysalimiri’s presence, and he’d completely lost track of time. It was jarring and not a circumstance he’d encountered in many, many years.

 

Suddenly he heard the whine of repulsors far in the distance and looked around, fear spiking that maybe the Jedi or the CDF officers who had been chasing them earlier had found them after all. Seeing nothing, he remembered what Dean had said, about the ship needing to drop _down_ and looked up, seeing the pinkish glow of repulsors shining from underneath the bulk of a familiar ship. The ship that had been like a phantom to him for so many months as he chased her, only to have her slip away, always out of grasp, again and again.

 

“Well, you are finally going to see her and even fly in her,” Cas said, sensing Shran’s thoughts.

 

“Is that… that’s not a slave program? The—”

 

“Chevy’s flying her,” Dean said. “You’re going to have to check your bias against droids, Master Shran,” he admonished. “Chevy’s a member of my family, and she’s damn useful in a tight spot.”

 

Shran watched as the ship dropped faster and faster, only to slow and hover just overhead, then maneuver seamlessly into a perfect landing just clear of their tired, ragged group.

 

The ramp lowered to meet them, ominous somehow. Shran realized he saw this as the final step. If he stepped on board, his old life was over. He looked over at Dean and Cas, who were waiting for him. Realized they’d both left their old lives behind because they had no choice. Here he was, with a chance to maybe help them. At least keep the Jedi off their backs. He took a step towards the ramp, finding peace with himself at last. “Come on, we’ve got a Universe to save.”

 

Dean just nodded, as Cas broke into a smile. They set off up the ramp, and Shran followed.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 32:**

 _Onboard the Iriaz Dream_ (present day, three hours later)

 

“You see, I don’t get why you two would risk your lives for a Sith rock. I mean, you knew the Jedi were after you, and that little mess back at the Temple sure proved what a risk it was.”

 

Dean grunted and rolled his eyes at Cas, who was currently fiddling with Bacta patches on Dean’s still-injured arm while they sat in the _Dream’s_ Kitchen _cum_ clinic. They weren’t yet sure how long or far they would need to travel in hyperspace before they arrived wherever Ruby and Sam—his breath hitched at the thought—were, and if it was just a short jump to another Core world, they couldn’t risk Dean not being in perfect health because there hadn’t been enough time in the Healing Trance. Of course, they’d also promised to give Shran some answers, and now that the shock had worn off, he was as outraged and—cranky—as Dean had ever seen a Jedi Master be.

 

Cas shot a look at Dean, an unnecessary—but appreciated—gesture of reassurance and a question. Dean tilted his head ever-so slightly in agreement. He was feeling well enough to talk now, but his lungs were still sore and healing, and it just made more sense if he let Cas do the talking.

 

“It is not, as you put it, a Sith rock, not strictly speaking anyway,” Cas said as he placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, letting the Force flow between them and giving it a gentle squeeze.

 

“I’m not going to debate semantics with you—” Shran began.

 

“I promise you it’s a lot more than semantics,” Cas interrupted, speaking Dean’s words. “Now, have a seat,” he made a wide, sweeping gesture, indicating one of the empty kitchen chairs.

 

Shran sat, clearly uncomfortable. It wasn’t really a pleasant situation for anyone. In fact, if Shran hadn’t seen the expert piloting job Chevy and the _Dream_ could manage all on their own, Dean would have begged off, told Shran they were needed on the bridge. But Shran _did_ know—even if he did look distinctly uneasy that neither Dean nor Cas was flying the ship—and this conversation had to happen. And it had to be now.

 

“The Beckonstone was designed by a Sith. From what we can gather, Azazel or one of his acolytes either copied key design elements of the Runes and created the Beckonstone—or the Beckonstone came first and the Protectorate incorporated its features into the Runes.” Cas paused letting his words sink in and fussed with more of the Bacta paraphernalia sitting on the table next to Dean. Before Cas started talking again, Dean was staring down the unpleasant stench of a glass of Bactade.

 

“We think it’s the former because the Beckonstone was almost completely unknown to the Protectorate and the Jedi alike—not unheard of like Ruby, the Messenger, but close to it. If the Protectorate had based the Rune design on it, we would have known more about it—not needed a riddle and an ancient lizard to guide us to it.”

 

Shran’s eyebrow shot up. “Ancient lizard?”

 

“‘S’a long story,” Dean murmured, words slurring with exhaustion. “Very old ysalimir. Called the Guardian. Has lots of neat tricks.”

 

“Ah, I see,” Shran said, his tone belying his words. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms across his chest. “Isn’t it possible the Protectorate just didn’t tell you because they didn’t want people using a dangerous Dark Side artifact?”

 

Dean sucked in a breath and straightened as much as he dared in his seat.

 

“Master Shran, the Protectorate doesn’t view the Force or the Dark Side the way the Jedi do. We also do not value or promote ignorance, not even as a method of protection or for good intentions.” Cas’s voice was cold, his words clipped, he was projecting somewhat in the Force, and if Dean wasn’t literally feeling the same emotions (both his own and Cas’s were blended in Cas), he would be... unsettled at the least.

 

As it was, Shran pressed back in his chair, looking a little startled.

 

“Yes, we have used cells as a form of organization, planning, and information dissemination, but we have always shared as much information as possible, only restricting that which is absolutely necessary to preserve the mission of the cell. We strive to ensure information is available from multiple sources so that those who need it can find it.”

 

Shran glowered a little. “That still doesn’t explain why you needed it, why it was worth risking your lives over...”

 

“The Beckonstone is essentially the inverse of the Runes. The Runes, when used together can bind and banish an entity based on its force presence. The Beckonstone—you use it by itself and you can find someone summon them. Either call them to you or lead yourself to them.” Cas’s words were filled with urgency, but spoken evenly. Dean could feel how frustrated Cas was—frustrated and _scared_ —and he found himself speaking up if only to reassure Cas that he was healing, that all was not lost.

 

“We think—no we know,” Dean began, “Darth Azazel used the stone to summon the Force ghost of his Messenger back to our plane of existence," he paused, swallowing hard. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, rougher. “We’re pretty sure she’s the one who’s been training Sam so...”

 

Cas picked up. “We had hoped Sam would turn on his beacon—it’s a device John Winchester designed—but he hasn’t and now... well, now we can be certain he isn’t going to. If the beacon were turned on now, we would know it was a trap. So, the Beckonstone is the only way to find Sam.”

 

Shran looked at them skeptically. “So you’re going to what, summon this Ruby girl here? Or—”

 

“No. The stone can summon someone to you, tell you where they are, or—in some circumstances—take you to them,” Cas explained.

 

“We’re going with option ‘B,’ Dean explained. “We may be able to get it to tell us Sam’s location specifically, but we’re not sure because he’s never had contact with the stone. Although that might only be necessary if we were summoning him to a location different from where we are,” Dean mused.

 

“We think that is what Darth Azazel did to summon Ruby. He was on Coruscant when he summoned Ruby to Ossus.”

 

“Ossus?” Shran asked, sounding suddenly surprised.

 

Dean was going to speak, but something in Shran’s expression stopped him. Dean looked at Cas, who shook his head minutely. Dean nodded, amused at their reliance on visual confirmation—their experience with the ysalamiri was still too close, too immediate. They were in agreement at least. Shran was going to have to figure out what was bothering him and speak his mind.

 

They continued in expectant silence for several minutes. Shran seemed to gather himself, then started pacing.

 

Dean imagined this was how he probably looked in the middle of a particularly tense investigation.

 

“Ossus, you say? You were on Ossus.” It was a statement, not a question.

 

“Yes,” Cas confirmed.

 

“I just missed you, didn’t I?” Shran asked, his question just this side of rhetorical enough to require an answer.

 

“We knew you were there,” Dean started, swallowing and breathing carefully when a new wave of pain washed through him. He felt Cas reach out for him in the Force at the same time he laid a steadying hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing lightly and taking on some of Dean’s pain as his own.

 

“We avoided you and left quickly, careful to conceal our presence,” Cas finished.

 

Shran nodded again and resumed pacing, only to stop abruptly, leaning hard against the back of one of the galley’s chairs, his knuckles rigid as he gripped the chair and squeezed hard, molded duraplast groaning under the strain. “I felt something... a presence... and an echo. “ Shran scrunched up his forehead. “I knew there was something more going on there, but I couldn’t put my finger on it, and the Council wanted me out there looking for _you_...” His voice trailed off again and he resumed pacing at a slower, more listless rate.

 

Dean knew the feeling... maybe not exactly what Shran was experiencing, but he knew what it was like to try—to want, no need—to hold onto something, a system of beliefs, a set of truths, a way of life, for as long as possible. Longer than he should have and far past the point where he knew it was wrong. Shran looked stricken, nauseated, so Dean decided to throw him a bone.

 

“The Council would have been worse if you’d stayed,” he murmured.

 

Shran stopped and looked at Dean, eyes piercing. “The echo; that was Ruby. But the presence?”

 

“That was the Force presence of the girl whose body Ruby took,” Cas said softly.

 

“Took?” Shran asked, his voice and eyebrows rising. “I thought the Sith spirits just... possessed people... “ Shran looked distinctly unsettled, like maybe he’d figured it out for himself, but was too disgusted with the answer he’d found to be willing to voice it.

 

Dean stole a glance at Cas, who shifted to let his hand trail soothingly through Dean’s hair.

 

“We think she wanted... or Azazel wanted to show they were equal to the protectorate,” Cas started.

 

Dean let out a long sigh. Clearly Shran had deduced much about Cas’s nature—he had to have otherwise he’d still be insisting Cas was really some other Jedi. But how much? And would he now think Cas had... had stolen his body.

 

While Dean’s mind was sprinting down different hyperspace tunnels, Cas started to speak again.

 

“They wanted to show that they had someone like me,” his voice was faint, the “me” barely voiced, little more than a puff of air bursting from his lips.

 

Dean knew Ruby’s existence upset Cas, but he’d never understood just how much _shame_ Cas felt—a riotous monster of doubt lurking, rearing its head and claws, tearing at him from the inside— _responsible_ for what Ruby and Azazel had done. Dean was shocked he’d never felt it before in their bond. He felt a brief flash of frustration, thinking Cas had kept it from him to protect him, but then he realized... he was just feeling this now because Cas had never admitted it to himself before. It had always been subsumed in the nebulous mass of responsibility and anxiety Cas felt for the fate of the Universe as a whole, but now that they were facing this, dealing with Ruby and what she was, it was too personal, too immediate to _not_ acknowledge. Dean leaned back into Cas, letting his forgiveness and trust bleed through the physical contact.

 

“Only...” Cas started again.

 

“Only they aren’t like you at all, because they hijacked some poor kid and kicked her out of her own body, while you...” Shran looked directly at Cas and shook his head in something closer to bemusement than uncertainty. “Novak was always way too serious and sure of himself for someone so young. He always had the ‘higher purpose, grand destiny’ thing going on. A lot of Jedi used to think he was just full of himself. I thought he was an over-eager kid. We were all wrong.” He shook his head again, “Novak was Protectorate and he knew his entire life that he would someday turn his body over to you.”

 

Dean sucked in a breath, surprised despite himself.

 

“Part of the deal of seeing force signatures,” Shran muttered in explanation with a somewhat embarrassed shrug.

 

“You know… we don’t have an issue with people with uncommon or special abilities,” Dean said with amusement. “You don’t need to be all secretive or embarrassed like you might be around the Order.”

 

Shran nodded. “I got that. It just probably won’t sink in until the circumstances are a little…” he trailed off.

 

Dean felt Cas nod beside him. The _if we survive this_ remained unspoken. _Good_ , Dean thought. It wouldn’t do them any good to have Shran start getting defeatist and fatalistic now.

 

“We were able to communicate with the spirit of the girl. She had dreams her whole life, and the Messenger finally appeared to her… she realized at the last moment what the Messenger said was a trick. She tried to hold onto her body, but Ruby had gained too much of a foothold,” Cas explained.

 

“So, she was Force-sensitive?” Shran asked rhetorically.

 

Dean nodded.

 

“What did… what did Ruby tell her?”

 

As Cas recounted the young Force ghost’s tale, Dean reached out in the Force. He wasn’t prying or intruding into Shran’s space, more looking for surface reactions. In an ideal world they would have eased Shran into the reality of the Force, the Protectorate, the true danger of the Sith, the negatives of the Jedi Order, but the circumstances weren’t ideal, and Dean was apprehensive Shran would suddenly balk and refuse to help them or try to turn them into the Jedi High Council _again_ and they didn’t have the time for that—and Dean certainly couldn’t risk another exposure to the ysalimiri… But as Cas spoke, Dean didn’t sense any rage, threat, or indignation coming from Shran. Instead there was a sense of something _sorrowful_ and resigned.

 

“It’s true, you know,” Shran said when Cas had finished the explanation. “What Ruby told her about the Jedi… if the girl’s abilities had been discovered at her age, she would have been watched and feared, not trained, and if she’d been discovered as a child…”

 

“She would have been taken away from her family,” Dean finished for him. “That was one of my fathers’ biggest problems with the Jedi. That and well… no offense, but Shadows are pretty ineffective about stopping the Dark Side and Sith artifacts from tearing people’s lives apart.”

 

Shran blinked as if lost in thought and nodded. “I didn’t understand that until I encountered… resistance from the Council in investigating the ysalimiri and the Prophecy.”

 

The missing circuit clicked into place in Dean’s mind and the holonovel started to play out before his eyes. “Let me guess, they resisted the entire investigation, but they were freaked out about the ysalimiri, so they let you follow those leads and got… greedy?”

 

“Obsessed is more like it,” Shran agreed, cocking his head to the side. “So, if we use the Beckonstone, it will help us find Ruby, which will take us to Sam, and hopefully give you time to…”

 

“Still can’t share the plan,” Dean said, genuinely apologetic.

 

“No, it’s okay; I get it. He could glean the information from my mind, right?” Shran asked.

 

“I am not so sure ‘glean’ is the right choice of words—I doubt that either Sam Winchester or Azazel on their own would be so polite in retrieving the information from you,” Cas replied.

 

Shran snorted, a bitter sort of laugh, and nodded. “Right.” He paused, his brow furrowing in contemplation as he rapped his fingers along the back of the seat. “The Beckonstone can transport one in the Force as well as physically?”

 

Dean glanced up at Cas, after all this was one of the things they didn’t know.

 

“We _think_ ,” Cas started, “that it primarily works through the Force—somewhat akin to how a vision can show one possible futures or the natural mobility an Force user’s essence has when not bound to a physical body but also not fully subsumed in the force,” he hesitated, “but we think it can also on some instances transport physical bodies, much like there are some individuals who possess the rare and fabled ability to flow-walk..”

 

Shran nodded. “How does the Protectorate feel about flow-walking? Because the Order is pretty… unsettled by it,” he said, selecting the word carefully. “Even more unsettled by it than they are by my abilities—at least I can be _useful_ to them…”

 

“The Protectorate doesn’t condemn any individual power or ability. Some are rooted more solidly in the dark or light side of the Force, but over the millennia we have grown to understand that there is much more to the Force and beings purposeful use of it than just light or dark—the harm that can be done depends on a confluence among the ability, the individual, and the other events in the universe often outside any one being’s control. Flow-walking can be dangerous if someone sets out to try to change the past or the future, to bend the Force to one’s will without understanding, but it is not unequivocally evil—it can be used to restore balance to do good…” Cas explained.

 

Shran nodded again. “I was curious. I think I have a lot to… unlearn,” he admitted.

 

Dean thought the conversation might be over since Shran let out a long sigh and then sat down in the chair he had alternated between gripping and pacing around. But to Dean’s surprise, Shran steepled his fingers under his chin and asked another pointed question.

 

“So, do you know how to get rid of Ruby? Because if she’s still—I should say if the girl’s spirit is still tied to her body, I think I might have another idea of how to use the Beckonstone to defeat her.”

 

Dean sat up a little straighter, relieved that it _didn’t_ hurt so much this time.

 

Cas slipped around to Dean’s side and sat in the seat next to him so they were all on equal footing… or rather, seating, as the case was. “We do not. I expect she will wish to battle me, and I will need to keep her… distracted to allow Dean to carry out the plan.”

 

Shran’s eyes darted between them, widening in surprise.

 

“Cas does not need to be physically present to guide me,” Dean explained, picking up some of Cas’s phrasing.

 

“The stone—Cas, you are going to use it, right? I know it harmed, Dean?” Shran queried, his voice still contemplative.

 

Dean humored him. “Yeah, Cas is going to use it. I don’t think it would hurt you, although I’m surprised you would willingly use a Dark artifact.”

 

“It is harmful to Dean because he is the Healer. The Beckonstone draws purely from the Dark side, and with the Force as unbalanced as it is…” Cas added.

 

“I get it.” Shran nodded to himself. “If it works as you say, then I may be able to use it to… vanquish the Messenger.”

 

Dean felt a wry smile creep over his face. “You’re not going to tell us how, because then Ruby could ‘glean’ it from our minds?”

 

“Something like that,” Shran agreed. “I also don’t want you to get your hopes up in case it doesn’t work.”

 

“Well, there are always the Runes,” Cas said sagely.

 

“If Bobby can get to wherever we’re going in time,” Dean agreed. He cocked his head at Shran, regarding him silently. “But I’m pretty sure we know what you’re thinking. It all depends on how strong the bond is between the girl and her body and how easy it is to use the Beckonstone to transport one’s… essence.”

 

“I think my ability to be convincing will likely play a larger role,” Shran added with a sigh. He looked from Dean to Cas and back again. “Would you like some privacy to use the stone?”

 

Dean sighed suddenly weary, the brief surge of relief he’d felt at Shran’s relative ease of acceptance of the situation and the possibility—however slight—that they’d have an actual solution to defeating Ruby, slipped away. They needed to use the Beckonstone soon. After all, they’d been captured and he’d nearly _died_ to get the blasted thing. It was just so final. If they could find Ruby or Sam with the stone, then they’d have a target, a destination. But there was no guarantee they could get there in time and no guarantee the plan would work and so many other things that could go wrong along the way the situation seemed insurmountable. Dean wanted nothing more than to go hole up at Miss’Ouri’s and heal and meditate, train some more, spend time with Cas and Chevy, and not have the fate of the Universe hanging over his head… not have the prospect of killing his brother slowly strangling him surer than the durasteel grip of a Sith Master’s Force choke.

 

But when they had their destination—there was no turning back. And as much as he knew delaying would only diminish their chances, part of him wanted to run. More than that, he was afraid, no terrified, that when they found their destination it would be so very far away that even the _Dream’s_ impressive hyperdrive wouldn’t be unlikely to get them there before Sam gave in. Because how long could Sam hold on, really?

 

Perhaps Dean should have been surprised that he didn’t fear the stone not working. He was confident it would lead them to Sam, but that was because he’d seen their battle in his dreams, in his mind, in the Force. No matter what happened, he would see Sam again before the end—

 

—There were no guarantees he’d be able to do anything to stop Azazel from fulfilling his take on the Prophecy though.

 

Miss’Ouri would tell him that was the way of the Universe. Always twisting and hidden, springing up with surprises and unexpected interpretations so you couldn’t go figuring things out in advance—couldn’t out right _change_ or what was prophesied from coming to pass. Because for all anyone knew what sounded horrible could be good and vice versa. There was nothing to do but follow his conscience and strive for balance—fight yes, but not worry about what would come of it. Dean could only control his role, nothing more. And no good would come of him _hiding_ from his Destiny.

 

Cas’s lips brushing against his temple drew him out of his contemplation, and he realized he’d been drifting, meditating without meaning to, lost in his mind and the Force for several minutes at least.

 

He refocused to gaze up at Cas, drawing strength from the clear blue of Cas’s eyes smiling down at him. When he looked across the kitchen-clinic at Shran he found the former Jedi Master regarding him with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

 

“I am going to take the Beckonstone into the hold—it should be far enough from you to not cause you harm. Can you show Shran to his bunk?” Cas’s voice was steady and gentle.

 

“Yeah, I can do that,” Dean said slowly. When they’d first met, he would have been irate about anyone, let alone Cas, trying to protect or coddle him. Now he knew better. He couldn’t risk being close to the Beckonstone when the protective box was opened… and he _needed_ the time to heal. “I’ll wait for you in our bunk.”

 

Cas nodded and pressed a kiss to Dean’s hair, trailing his hand along Dean’s shoulder and arm, and intertwining their fingers briefly before slipping from the room. As he left, he withdrew from Dean’s mind shielding himself. Not completely breaking the link—because short of a ysalimir there was no way to do that, nor would he try—but shielding his mind, giving Dean space.

 

Dean watched Cas go, longingly. He hated the loss of connection—and he knew Cas did too—but after Dean’s reaction to the Beckonstone earlier… _Sithspit_ was it just earlier that day? Cas couldn’t afford to take any chances. Dean understood, and he felt loved, relieved and reassured that Cas would so carefully protect him from the danger the Beckonstone posed. But no matter how well he understood, he still didn’t _like_ the isolation. He wanted to know what Cas found the moment he found it—yes, even as much as he dreaded knowing—but he would have to wait. Another layer of torture piled on the mountain that was already there.

 

When the door had swished shut behind Cas, Dean turned back to Shran. “So, let me show you where you’re sleeping.” He stood, a little shaky, but much steadier than he’d been when Cas had helped him in here. “Cas will tell you where we’re going when he knows. He’ll make sure Chevy gets the course set in.”

 

Shran grunted and stood as Dean approached him on his way toward the door that would lead them out into the hall and toward the cabins and bridge. “After you,” he said, sweeping his hand to the side.

 

Dean nodded and led Shran up the corridor, he could hear Chevy trilling to herself from the bridge, and he vowed to pay her a quick visit before settling in for the night.

 

Shran must have sensed Dean’s hesitation because he paused when they came to the first door on the left. “Is this?”

 

“That’s the main cabin. Cas and I stay there,” Dean said defensively, holding out his arm to block Shran’s entry.

 

“Sorry… I didn’t mean…”

 

“No, I’m sorry,” Dean apologized. “We were serious before, about not touching anything in our quarters.” The words hung out there as Dean let his arm drop to his side. He rubbed his temples flinching when the movement caused still-healing skin to pull. “Ugh,” he sighed. “I—I need to have a safe place.”

 

“I understand, you don’t… you don’t have to explain,” Shran said, his tone soft, almost reassuring.

 

Dean looked up at him, seeing the Jedi Master as a friend for the first time. “Thanks. I know—I know this has got to be a lot to take in, and we’ve kind of ripped you away from everything you spent your life devoted to…” When he put it like that, Dean felt like day-old bantha fodder.

 

“It can’t have been any easier for you. I—I’ve learned about your father,” Shran said.

 

Dean flinched at the mention of John Winchester, but relaxed, letting the grief go as quickly as it had come. “It’s okay now. I just—” his chest heaved when his thoughts turned to Sam. “Sammy’s always been there; it was always _my job_ to protect him. Even when he went away to school, even when he and my dad fought? He was still my responsibility. I just don’t want to fail him now. I—I _can’t_ fail him.” Dean braced his healing arm against the wall, leaning his head on his forearm. “If I fail Sam, chances are, we all die. And I don’t know—” Dean shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

 

Shran hesitated then stepped towards Dean and placed his hand gently on Dean’s bicep. “The Universe is in good hands.” His voice cracked a little and he swallowed. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, or if you’ll be able to _reach_ Sam, but from what I’ve seen of you, there is no one I would trust more to pull it off.”

 

Dean swallowed again and nodded, speechless. A lump had sprung up in his throat without warning and he found it hard to speak around it. “Th—thanks,” Dean managed. He turned away, swatting at his eyes with his good hand to bat away the tears he found there. “Uh, this, this is your room,” he gestured at the doorway across the corridor from the main cabin. “It’s small, but the ‘fresher’s right next door, and we don’t really use that one so, you don’t have to worry about not touching anything.”

 

“Thank you,” Shran said, stepping towards the door.

 

They both hesitated for a moment, standing in their respective doorways, both waiting. It was probably unreasonable to expect Cas to be finished already, but Dean certainly wasn’t ready to go wait in their bunk by himself. Shran seemed to have the same idea. They shared a glance at each other, then back towards the hold.

 

“I should probably go check on Chevy,” Dean said.

 

Shran opened his mouth to speak, only to snap his jaw shut at the sound of approaching footsteps clanking on the decking.

 

Cas was running.

 

Dean reached out to for him feeling Cas reach out for him in return, the Force bond surging between them opening, growing. With a surge of Force power that hit Dean so hard he actually saw a flash behind his eyes, he had the answer. “Korriban.”

 

“What?” Shran asked, confused.

 

But Dean was already moving towards the bridge. He needed to get Chevy to lay in the new course. Korriban wasn’t even close and travel between Coruscant and the distant former Sith stronghold was so infrequent there weren’t any regular hyperspace routes plotted. He’d have to use the Force to help Chevy with the _Dream’s_ navcomp or they’d take weeks to get there. And he knew they didn’t have that time. Almost an afterthought, he cast a glance over his shoulder at Cas and rolled his eyes towards Shran.

 

Cas gave him a blink of acknowledgment as he reached out and gave Dean the mental equivalent of a reassuring caress. Using the Beckonstone had left Cas rattled.

 

Dean tore his eyes away and slipped onto the bridge as he heard Cas explain to Shran behind him, “Ruby and Sam are on Korriban. I am certain Lord Azazel is there with them. Dean is plotting a course now. I must contact Bobby Singer and let him know the location.”

 

“The hunter,” Shran said.

 

“Yes; he will help us.”

 

Dean slipped into the pilot’s seat and brought up the navcomp’s controls, prodding Cas’s mind as he did so.

 

“Later. I will explain later,” Cas reassured.

 

Worried but understanding, Dean let it go and returned his attention to the here and now only to realize Chevy was whistling and bleating at him in annoyance.

 

“I’m sorry Chevy,” he sighed. “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I know this hasn’t been easy—” He cut himself off when the translation of Chevy’s droid equivalent of a tongue-lashing began to scroll across the screen on the console before him.

 

Sam is on Korriban? We must go to him now. I anticipated Korriban as a likely location for a Sith stronghold. Have already plotted fastest course.

 

Dean watched as the text translation switched to a series of diagrams detailing a plotted hyperspace course to Korriban. Dean felt his mouth open in surprise. It was more or less the same path he’d begun working on, only even _more_ daring—okay reckless—than he’d been willing to draw it. He reached out with the Force and mentally followed the path. Sure enough, it would work… if… “Chevy, we’re cutting it very close to a black hole—”

 

I already recalibrated the hyperdrive to achieve another 12% efficiency over optimum. We can escape the gravity well with speed to spare.

 

Dean just nodded, as Chevy showed him the changes she’d made to the hyperdrive generator and sublight engines both, the altered schematics flashing across the screen one after the other forming almost a jerky 2-D film. “Thanks Chevy… thank—thank you,” he managed. He was tearing up again, his voice choked and hollow. He reached over and ran his gloved hand over the cool metal dome of Chevy’s head.

 

She cooed at the contact and tilted up on her treads to lean into his touch.

 

I love Sam too. You can save him.

 

“Thank you… thank you,” he murmured, sliding from the pilot’s chair and dropping to one knee as he wrapped his arms around the little droid, resting his head against hers, letting his skin touch her, feeling the flood of memories course through him. He stayed there for a few minutes, hugging her, letting the emotions and images of childhood, his real childhood on Dantooine, before Azazel had killed his mom, before hunting, before growing up and living on the run wash over him, through him. There was something so peaceful, almost innocent about it, even with all the pain of loss and regret and nostalgia, he let himself get lost there for a while drifting in memories of Mary Campbell Winchester’s droid repair shop.

 

Chevy trilled again, snapping him out of the psychometric transference and pulling him back to the present.

 

Cas was ready for him. Waiting in their bunk. He’d contacted Bobby and there was a good chance Bobby would make it in time—well around the same time they did. Whether it would be _in time_ to save Sam—or the Universe—remained to be seen. The course was laid in. All he had to do now was activate it, and Chevy would pilot them. She had already set the proximity alarms to alert the passengers before they exited hyperspace. There was nothing more to do but activate the drive and wait.

 

Reluctantly, Dean pulled himself up, smiling at Chevy with more cheer than he felt. “Y’all ready girl?” he asked.

 

She gave a long warbling sigh in response.

 

He didn’t need to look at the translation to know what it meant. She felt the same trepidation and impatience he did. “Here goes nothing,” he said as he slid the lever on the control panel forward, and watched the stars stretch into starlines and then blend into the wavering blue of hyperspace. “Keep an eye on things for me,” he added as he strode off the bridge and back towards their bunk.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 33:**

(a few hours later)

 

Cas shifted beside him, rolling Dean onto his back and holding him carefully, gingerly, as if he would break.

 

“What did it feel like?” Dean asked.

 

Cas moved again, levering himself up on one elbow, his skin sliding whisper smooth against Dean’s and making Dean gasp.

 

There were together now, in their bunk. No clothes to separate them, just skin to skin, anchoring Dean, satisfying his touch-starved skin, nothing else touching them but the Ottegan silk sheets that lined their bunk, kept safe and untouched by anyone but them.

 

“I—” Cas started to hesitate then gave in, opening up the part of his mind that he’d shielded from Dean. “It was the Dark Side,” he murmured.

 

Dean felt the rush of the Beckonstone, the _pull_ on his Force presence, the tug and undertow, threatening to whirl him away, far away, out into the galaxy; the struggle for control, reining it in, reaching out again, seeking the Messenger, the Chosen one, the _surge_ as it found them together with a presence so distinctly _evil_ and corrupt, putrid with decay and twisted with good intentions wrapped in hatred woven with revenge… Darth Azazel. Then for a moment he was _there_ in a place that _hissed_ with the whispers and memories of the Sith. Dark stone temples and caves whose storied hallways Darth Revan and Malak and the Jedi Exile had once walked. Caves where the Qel-Dromas once tread. Clearly and distinctly Korriban; something in Dean—or actually something in Cas, since it was Cas’s memory he was experiencing, or maybe it was just the Force itself—recognized the _smell_ of the place. And there… in _bed_ of all places, Sam and Ruby, only Sam was clearly Azazel because his eyes were flashing yellow and Ruby was calling him _Master_. Dean was suddenly sick and wrenched himself free from the flow of memory so abruptly he worried he’d hurt Cas.

 

Only Cas was there, fine, soothing and solid and present in his mind as always, rubbing Dean’s back as he vomited over the side of the bunk.

 

When Dean could breathe again, he realized Cas had also managed to float the portable waste bin into range so he’d actually puked into _that_ instead of making a mess of the floor. He was so relieved and grateful, he was overwhelmed, sagging with grief and gratitude.

 

“Shhh, shh… I am sorry,” Cas whispered.

 

Dean just breathed, his breaths turning into long, stuttering sighs, which morphed into sobs. For the third time in an hour, he was crying. He hated it. Hated feeling this out of control. Wanted to throw his emotions aside, but he knew, in this instance, _feeling_ was the only way he’d retain balance, his basic goodness; it was the only way he could possibly reach Sam. Only…

 

“That is why I did not show you in the hall. I could not in good conscience allow you to see something so personal in Master Shran’s presence,” Cas explained apologetically. He hated keeping anything from Dean, Dean knew that.

 

“I’m sorry _you_ had to see that,” Dean mumbled. “Sam… how could he. I—his eyes were yellow.”

 

“We knew Darth Azazel had already possessed him,” Cas whispered into the crook of his neck, placing a soft kiss there and following it with more tracing a path up his neck and along his jaw before pressing their lips together gently.

 

“Yeah, but Sam… Sam’s been fucking Ruby. She was—she was happy it was _both_ of them,” Dean shuddered. “I never wanted to see my baby brother having sex, especially not _with_ a Sith Lord while possessed by one.” Dean spat in disgust into the waste bin, clearing a little more of the awful taste of vomit from his mouth. “Sam was enjoying it too… at least, a part of him was… until…” Dean cocked his head to the side as realization struck him and he sagged back against Cas.

 

“Until he _felt_ Darth Azazel’s intentions towards you,” Cas finished for him.

 

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.

 

“That is the defiance we need. He will still answer to your plea. Just—you must _show_ him what he means to you; what will happen if Azazel gets his way.”

 

“I know,” Dean murmured, feeling the tug of sleep and the comfort of Cas’s embrace settle him. “I know.” He just hoped it would be enough.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 34:**

 _Cave complex, Korriban_ (present day, four days later)

 

Sam couldn’t believe it.  Seven _months_ of waiting.  The _vision_ , hanging over his head, like a threat.  All that time spent running away.  Now he was here.  Or should he say now _they_ were here.  In a hot, damp cave, deep in the ruins of the Sith Academy on Korriban next to a screaming, rushing waterfall, waiting for the vision to come true.

 

He was nominally in control of his body.  If he looked in a ‘fresher mirror, he was pretty sure his eyes would be hazel-brown not yellow.  He could move and speak and think.  But he wasn’t fooled.  He knew perfectly well Azazel was still there inside him just waiting until the moment was right to spring forward and take control, shoving Sam into a tiny corner of his mind, where he could hear and see and think, but communicate with no one and do nothing _except_ Azazel.

 

The Sith Lord had given up control rather abruptly earlier that morning in the middle of sex with Ruby.  One moment Sam was the passenger, feeling as the Sith used his body to consummate their love—hungry and touch-starved for each other after five-thousand years apart.  And then he was in control, feeling first hand Ruby’s tight heat clamping down around him as Azazel’s reactions and emotions filtered through the back of his mind.

 

Ruby knew, immediately, but that just made her moan and writhe with renewed fervor, coming hard and pulling Sam over the edge with her.

 

He was still trying to figure out if she’d been thrilled to have him as her _primary_ partner again, for lack of a better term, or if she was excited because she knew what was going to happen.  Knew his sudden control was a sign of the second stage of Azazel’s plan coming to fruition.

 

That had been mid-morning.  It was now mid-day.  Sam had heard, sensed, the roar of the _Dream’s_ engines and the whine of its repulsors as it lowered to the surface.  Had heard again, just a few minutes later, the hum and whine of the _Womp Rat_  landing beside it. He _felt_ both, even though he was over thirty klicks away inside a cave.

 

Sam’d been surprised that Bobby came too, part of him idly curious if that was part of Azazel’s plan.

 

He wished he hadn’t let himself _form_ those thoughts.  With Azazel sharing his body, no sooner had the thoughts materialized than Azazel was sending him images of his Acolytes stealing across the surface of the planet, surprising and capturing Bobby and Chevy.

 

His heart gave a little tug and pang at the thought of Chevy.  He _missed_ the little droid.  It was silly and stupid, but right now, he’d give almost anything to have five more minutes working side-by-side on the _Dream_ or the _Folly_ with her.  Only, he was pretty sure that would never happen.  The Acolytes would destroy her.  Azazel wouldn’t want that emotional connection to Sam’s past lying around, after all.

 

Dean was approaching now.  Sam could feel his brother drawing nearer, the events that had haunted his sleep slipping closer with every breath, every step, every beat of his traitorous heart.

 

Sam wondered when Azazel would start up the sweet talking again.  Every other time he’d let Sam have control, he’d done so only to try to talk Sam into letting Azazel stay _permanently_ , _willingly_ blending himself with Sam.  Sharing their power.  Right about now Sam could use the distraction.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 35:**

 _Cave complex, Korriban_ (present day, fifteen minutes later)

 

“The future’s not written in stone, Sam,” Dean called out, shouting over the roar of the waterfall, its cascade almost deafening as it reverberated around the walls of the cavern. Leave it to Sam to find the one noisy place on a planet famed for its eerie quiet, well that and its penchant for attracting Sith and life forms that basked in the Dark Side of the Force. “Azazel hasn’t won yet; I haven’t lost; you aren’t condemned; and the Force hasn’t been destroyed. Not yet,” Dean continued, sneaking a glance with his peripheral vision to track the cliff edge. “It can all be undone. Nothing is final. You don’t have to do this.” He caught Sam’s gaze, which was, once again his own—hazel eyes, not yellow—unable to keep the imploring tone from his voice.

 

“You do not understand,” Sam shouted back, snarling. He swung in a high arc, causing Dean to block and parry and block again, backing up, treading dangerously close to the edge. Sam looked confused, frustrated.

 

 _Good_ , Dean thought. _Maybe he’ll start to piece it together._

 

“I’ve seen this. I’ve watched this happen again and again. I _kill_ you, and no matter what I do—where I go—it still happens. I ran away, I trained to break free, and it brought me here anyway.” Sam’s voice was choked, angry, and tinged with sorrow.

 

Maybe Dean was getting to him. “I’m not dead yet. I’ve seen this too, and you didn’t kill me.” He cocked his head to one side, fully aware the seeming irreverence and his cavalier attitude might anger Azazel and draw him out. The Force seemed to feel like that wasn’t such a bad idea though, so Dean went with it, letting his Force-guided instinct lead him. “In your visions, did _this_ ever happen? You and me having this conversation? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be dead already, isn’t that right?” He stopped his retreat.

 

Sam froze, his expression pained, the lightsaber shaking in his grip.

 

“Ah, see, I thought so. That’s ‘cause he only showed you one possible future. The future _he_ wants for you. Only he doesn’t understand that you, joining with him, willingly? Using your combined powers? That’s gonna destroy the Force. He won’t have any power or say in what happens in the Universe, because there won’t _be_ a universe to rule or control.” Dean took two steps forward, holding his lightsaber en guard, but not actually striking.

 

Sam stepped back before freezing again. “You lie. You don’t know the power—”

 

“Of the Dark Side?” Dean interjected. “Oh please, you’re hardly the first Sith Lord to spout that nonsense.” He took a deep breath, “And if I succeed here, chances are, you probably won’t be the last.”

 

“You’re just saying what the Jedi want you to be—” Sam growled, his voice low, rumbling, tinged with the power of the Dark Side.

 

“I’m no Jedi, Sam. They’re just as wrong as the Sith, only in different ways and for different reasons. They tried to stop me. They wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit their collective ass.” He took another step forward. “Did’ya ever think maybe all that running, training—everything you did once the visions started was all because he wanted it? Azazel showed you what he wants and he tricked you, manipulated you into doing exactly what he wanted. Only now you’re here and it hasn’t exactly worked out like he planned. He’s fighting you, Sam, but that’s okay. It means you—you and I can still defeat him—together.”

 

For a split second, Sam seemed to consider it, he hesitated, realization seemed to dawn in his eyes, brightening them. But it was gone just as fast, as Sam’s entire body _froze_ then transformed, like a switch had flipped—powerful grace where before defiant, struggling angles had lived. Sam’s eyes glowed bright yellow, and Azazel was back in control.

 

 _So much for that_ , Dean acknowledged wearily. He was pretty sure he’d reached Sam at the end, so there might still be hope yet, if he could continue to make Sam hear him even with Azazel in control.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 36:**

(meanwhile, in another cave) _Cave complex, Korriban_ (present day)

 

“Why if it isn’t the leaky pipe’s little helper,” Ruby said snidely, as she stepped out of the shadows.

 

“Ruby,” Cas acknowledged, his voice gruff and firm.

 

Shran shifted, slipping further into the alcove created by the ragged rock wall. Ruby didn’t seem to detect him, so he relaxed fractionally, holding back the urge to let out a sigh of relief lest she hear and notice him. The smug satisfaction and superiority vibrating in her Force presence made him think maybe this would work. She was so—consumed—destroying and utterly defeating Cas, this might just work.

 

“Your name-calling does not bother me,” Cas replied.

 

They were circling now, lightsabers out and ready while they walked around and around, orbiting an unseen point in space.

 

He could... no, it would take too long for the plan to work. Not between them. It would be entertaining perhaps, but any entertainment value wouldn’t be worth wasting their one chance at killing Ruby.

 

“When I originally dreamed about this, I thought of coming here and showing you how we’re no different. You see, I was jealous,” Ruby snorted, “jealous that you got the Prophecy while I was unknown, unheard of, not even a footnote in history.”

 

Cas snorted and answered, sounding distinctively like Dean, “I thought that was the whole point—your master wanted you kept secret so you could trick Sam and lure him to Azazel.”

 

“I didn’t _trick_ anyone! Sam came to me of his own free will when I offered him what you wouldn’t,” Ruby snapped.

 

“Of course your _Master_ engineered the situation and you fed Sam half-truths and lies so he’d be more willing to follow.” Cas’s tone was matter of fact.

 

Ruby, on the other hand, was livid. She lashed out, springing from the invisible circle she had been treading, bringing her lightsaber in a violent, forceful uppercut that would have hit Cas on the chin and split his head in two if he hadn’t lept upwards and levitated himself out of the way in a swift, fast arc, flipping over and landing about five meters from Shran and directly in front of him.

 

 _Right. One spirit to—beckon_ , Shran thought focusing himself. He turned away from the duel which was happening in earnest now, blade against blade, impossibly fast slashes and swishes, culminating in angry, sparking crackles as the two energy weapons collided again and again.

 

 _If Ruby could see herself she’d never suggest she and Cas are the same._ Shran knew. Ruby was so obviously _fake_ forced, incompletely joined. Cas’s Force signature was whole and pure—steadfastly grey like rain clouds, never shifting. It was nothing like the signature of the Jedi who had bequeathed his body to the Guide, and there was nothing about it that suggested Cas was _unnatural_ , that he didn’t belong in his own body.

 

Ruby, on the other hand—well, her Force signature was unlike anything Shran had seen before, but not in a good way.

 

When Darth Azazel possessed someone—well, someone other than Sam Winchester—his Force signature appeared almost normal. Since he possessed sentients without Force sensitivity, there was no Force Signature but his own, along side the host’s natural life Force—the result was a Force signature that appeared more or less natural—it had taken Shran months of closely studying Azazel’s crime scenes before he noticed the _seam_ between the life force and the Force signature itself, and a lot of further review before he’d realized that the combination shifted very slightly each time Azazel jumped hosts.

 

The two acolytes were a different story. Since the bodies they possessed weren’t otherwise alive, their Force signatures appeared naked and unliving. It was quite disturbing and made then easy to spot. Azazel in _Sam_ was two Force signatures jammed in the same body. They shifted around each other from discordant to almost blended, presumably in tune with Sam’s mood and how close he was to giving in and accepting Darth Azazel willingly.

 

Ruby was similar to that but not quite. She had a—ghost—of a Force signature along side her own and her life seemed to flicker and shift along with it. What she didn’t understand was the rightful inhabitant of her body wasn’t willing in the end and hadn’t quite left.

 

The girl was Force sensitive, and the traces of her signature flickered around Ruby’s edges, blurring at times, growing strong and stark at others. It was jarring and made Ruby _feel_ like a usurper, an imposter, in the Force, only she didn’t seem to realize it.

 

The lightsaber battle was heating up, Cas’s silver blade clashing faster and faster against Ruby’s fittingly colored one, their bodies flowing into the movements.

 

Shran could tell Cas was holding back, but Ruby was too. She could sense it. Shran had to act now or it would be too late.

 

He’d never imagined he would ever willingly use a Sith artifact, but Shran held no regrets, only hope tempered by a healthy dose of apprehension as he reached into his cloak and pulled out the Beckonstone. Steeling himself, he pressed his palm to it and watched the veins of red begin to glow.

 

“Hear me,” he murmured, as his eyes slipped shut and he reached out in the Force, feeling for her. Glimpses and ghosts, stones rolling beneath his fingers in a strong current—that was what using the Beckonstone felt like. He would see a shadow or flash of light that reminded him of the girl, but then she’d slip away. Frustration started to grow until he reminded himself where she should be—Ossus.

 

The Beckonstone took him there—perhaps his body stayed hidden on Korriban, but his awareness, his Force presence, his soul, was standing in a desert cave he knew vaguely from his investigation there. Sunlight was streaming in from an entrance about 50 meters away, but the back of the cave was shrouded in darkness.

 

“I didn’t know what she was. I believed her, right up until the moment I started to let go of my body—it was like the Universe cried out for me to stop, and I tried, but it was too late. She’d already gotten in. That’s when I saw the stone—and I knew. I’m sorry.”

 

Cas whirled towards the sound of the voice. It was a girl, no a young woman, perhaps 20 standard years old. She was translucent, but very much there, real, and substantial. She looked just like Ruby—same too pale hair and skin that looked like it didn’t belong in the desert—and completely different. Her eyes were warm, her face innocent, her body spoke of purity and good intentions.

 

She was telling the truth. And as long as Ruby stole, hijacked, possessed her body, she would never be free to move on.

 

“You can stop her. You can destroy her or send her back where she came from,” Shran said, his voice more a whisper than he’d intended.

 

Uncertainty flashed through her eyes, as she seemed to flicker glowing, then sliding towards transparent, before evening out. “I don’t think I can do that?” she said, voice questioning and little more than a whisper.

 

“But you can,” Shran replied, matching her tone. He stepped closer to her, reaching out his hand as if to touch her, hesitating—because she wasn’t solid—and then remembering he wasn’t _really_ here either, and maybe he needed to start rethinking some of his assumptions. He smoothed out his movements, resting his hand lightly on hers, a gesture of comfort, not a threat. Her skin was warm.

 

She looked down at their hands and sucked in a breath as real as anything else in this place.

 

He shifted his grasp so he could give her hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re the only one who can stop her, end her forever, and it’s how you can free yourself.”

 

She looked lost again for a moment, so abjectly _sad_.

 

“She said I had great potential, that I was destined to be someone who could change the world, but the Jedi hadn’t noticed me and I was so old...” she stifled a sob, “too old, so if they ever found me, they wouldn’t train me. They’d fear me, and never let me become what I was meant to be. My only way was with her...”

 

Shran sobered, biting back the Jedi Order’s canned speech thoughts of the importance

of being able to mold a Jedi from childhood, the dangers and evils of personal attachment, the risk of those who come to the Order too late. A few days ago he wouldn’t have understood, and he definitely wouldn’t have been able to do what he was about to.

 

Shran drew himself up to his full height and let out a shaky breath. He relaxed, genuine sadness filling him, because the Jedi were to blame for this. It wasn’t just Ruby’s doing. Two sides. Neither right. Both pulling and tearing the Universe—tearing lives, people—apart. “She wasn’t lying, not about the Jedi. They don’t look hard enough on more isolated worlds, and they don’t train anyone if their any older than very small children. They fear untrained Force-sensitives, and even if they had found you when you were younger, they would have taken you away from your family. From your world.”

 

Tears came to the girl’s eyes. “So... so, she...”

 

“No, it wasn’t the only way. The Universe isn’t divided into just Jedi and Sith. There are others. Other disciplines, other ways...” He glanced down at their joined hands, glowing in the shadows. Shran squeezed and looked up, meeting her eyes; he could tell he was similarly moved, overcome. “I did not understand for most of my life. But then I met the Healer and the Guide—”

 

Her mouth opened in a wordless gasp. “You speak of the Prophecy!” she gasped.

 

“Yes, you—you know of it?” Shran stammered.

 

“It was recorded here, hidden, forgotten... my people found it long ago, honored it, but the Jedi never showed any interest. Said it was false. Not theirs. There were markings about it in the ruins where I used to play. I—I asked. It is real?” the girl asked.

 

“Yes, yes it’s real. The woman who stole your body is a servant of the Wraith, and if we don’t stop her, she is going to defeat the Guide and her master will conquer the Chosen One and the Healer and together they will tear the Force apart.” Shran paused, took a breath, letting his words sink in. “But you can stop that.”

 

The cave filled with an eerie silence and stillness. The girl did not speak, and Shran didn’t prod her to.

 

“How?”

 

“Come with me. I can take you there. My physical self is there with them on Korriban. They fight now. All you have to do is take your body back. Kick Ruby out. You can destroy her. You’re still linked to it.”

 

“What will happen to me?”

 

“I don’t know,” Shran said truthfully. “I do not know if you will be able to take your body back or if you will die. But if you die, you will be free, able to pass on, become one with the Force. If you live, I promise you I will do everything I can to make sure you learn about your gifts—about the Force.”

 

The girl flickered again for a moment, and seemed to resolve again, both in transparency and expression.

 

“Okay. I will go. I will help you.”

 

“What’s your name?” Shran asked, a faint smile breaking across his lips.

 

“Mina,” was her reply.

 

“Hi Mina, I’m Gariq, but a lot of people call me Master Shran.”

 

“Pleased to meet you,” Mina added. “Now how do we get there?”

 

“Just take my hand,” Shran said, reaching out and offering his hand to Mina. He closed his eyes, reached out in the Force and focused on the feel of his physical body grasping the Beckonstone. He _pulled_ and tugged his spirit back into his body, making sure not to let Mina go. The darkness of the cave on Korriban rematerialized around him, the air thick and sticky-sweet with the aroma of death and decay overlaid with the acrid stench of ozone. He could _feel_ the tacky roughness of the black stones around them, his mind immediately conjuring up childhood stories of tarentatek and other monsters who had once—maybe even now—inhabited these caverns. Sound returned with the crackle of lightsabers and harsh pants and grunts. Ruby and Cas were still fighting, and he was still hanging onto Mina, her spectral form solid now, but still glowing almost flame bright. Her eyes were wide and a little doubtful. “Look—” he said, gesturing towards the dueling figures. He focused on their Force signatures, hoping she would be able to see the wrongness and awkwardness in Ruby’s, the echo of her own.

 

“I understand,” Mina said, her voice suddenly certain and sure. “She will have me no longer.”

 

Mina let go of Shran’s hand. For a moment he was sure she would disappear or shift invisible, but she didn’t. She strode across the cave towards Cas and Ruby with purpose, glowing brighter with every step.

 

Cas and Ruby’s lightsabers met in a resounding clash high overhead, sparking and sizzling. Ruby let out a snicker of triumph and used the Force to shove Cas even while she pushed forward and down with her blade. Cas was caught by surprise and knocked backwards, landing awkwardly on his back and skidding across the floor, his lightsaber switching off in the process. Shran watched as Cas’s eyes flashed wide as he realized Ruby’s intent. She was springing forward in a high, arcing leap aided by the force, covering the same distance Cas had skidded in a fraction of the time. She seemed to glare down at him, completely consumed with rage and jealousy, her lightsaber raised overhead, beginning to swing down with a Force-aided killing blow that would surely split Cas in two.

 

Cas was already thumbing his lightsaber back on and contorting in preparation for rolling away and springing to his feet. But before he could move or Ruby could strike...

 

Shran watched as Mina reached out, fierce determination in her eyes. She grabbed Ruby’s shoulder hard, pulling her back and whirling her around, causing her grasp on the lightsaber to falter. It started to fall, spinning down and out of control, heading towards Cas, but Mina grabbed it, in the Force so it hovered, blade down, a good half-meter from Cas’s chest. She unceremoniously flicked it off and tossed it to the side.

 

“I don’t think so!” Mina said, her voice defiant, but warm and _human_ in a way Ruby’s had never been.

 

Ruby seemed so stunned; she hadn’t yet realized what had happened. Her arms were still raised overhead, and she was obviously straining to move. However she’d looked not at Mina, but at the hand gripping at her bicep with near-crushing force. Her forehead scrunched up in confusion, and understandably so.

 

Mina was apparently solid now both in terms of her physical presence and in the light spectrum, but her skin gave off a sort of fuzzy, glowing aura that Shran had never seen on a living being.

 

Ruby’s eyes tracked from the hand, up Mina’s arm, and finally met her face, her eyes widened almost comically before narrowing to shadowed slits. “You? How is this possible!”

 

Shran had to admit it was quite disconcerting to see the two of them, copies, the same, yet so utterly different. It wasn’t just the contrast of Ruby’s skin-tight red leather against Mina’s soft, brown, homespun desert tunic and leggings, or the aura Mina projected—it was everything from the way they carried themselves and moved to the way their voices sounded, to the lines and expressions on their faces. Ruby’s personality was forced, violent, stuffed in—blustering through with sheer force of will while exuding a sick, slick, insidiousness, as if she could look at you the wrong way and worm into your mind, past your defenses, and no matter how hard you tried or how much you knew, you could never, ever stop it. Mina was calm, uncertain but projecting growing confidence, determined but reserved—as if she understood enough about the universe to have patience—and she fought and moved with the sort of conviction of one fighting for survival, freedom, and the defense of everything dear. It was disarming, and in that moment, the flash of _fear_ in Ruby’s eyes told him she knew it too.

 

Mina was stronger.

 

Mina had a right to her physical body in a way Ruby never could.

 

He could tell the exact moment Ruby could _see_ the connection Mina still had with her body. Her mouth opened wide as if to scream or call for her Master, but no sound came out.

 

“You do not belong here. You cannot have my body. I know the lies you told.” Mina’s voice was so soft, Shran only heard her because she projected the words through the Force, and as with each word, Ruby shook in her grasp, as if the sounds had a physical impact.

 

Shran could see the flicker, subtle shift, and change in Ruby’s Force presence as the connection between her soul and the body she had stolen thinned and frayed. Mina was pushing her out.

 

Ruby glanced sideways, her face seeming to blur as if Ruby’s soul and the body weren’t moving quite in sync. She glanced to Cas and raised her free hand with a stutter.

 

Shran could see the power building within, could see her summoning the Force to herself and moving to _push_ Cas. Shran reached out in the Force, prepared to try to counter or stop whatever she was going to do. Everything shifted and blurred, and suddenly he was seeing things happen in fast forward. He could see the Force powers she intended to use, the moves she would make, the intent of her actions resolving into the shapes in her Force signature _before_ she lashed out. She planned to throw Cas against the cavern wall, dash him and impale him on ragged shards of the rock. Shran’s stomach turned at the thought of the Guide’s dashed and bloody on the cave’s cortosis-rich rock that was dark as obsidian but covered in an oily almost opalescent sheen.

 

“No.” He held up his hand, an unconscious movement, as he spoke. She wouldn’t act as she pleased. He could stop her, and he would. He felt the momentary _tug_ as his telekinesis stopped Ruby and froze her in place. Glancing down at Cas, he realized the man was injured, blood trickling from his temple, a singed spot on the side of his robe, that Shran knew concealed a painful, but superficial, burn. _Huh_ , he thought. _Looks like they were… busy while I was off communing with Mina’s spirit._

 

Cas was flinching, he realized, bracing himself.

 

Shran looked more closely drawing in more information with the Force. Cas didn’t _seem_ injured, and his Force reserves were still strong. Why he didn’t just push back, why he’d sustained any injuries, was a mystery. He supposed Cas was probably reserving his strength for some secret role in Dean’s plan against Azazel, but that still wouldn’t explain why…

 

Cas’s eyes drifted over to Ruby and Mina, and he gave Mina a tiny nod of thanks, approval, appreciation… It seemed to be everything rolled into one split-second meaningful glance, and while Cas was sure he missed most of the exchange, Mina’s return nod and ear-to-ear smile told him she got the message. _Oh._ Cas had taken damage so he could avoid physically harming Mina’s body.

 

Mina returned her focus to Ruby, her grin turning feral, terrifying. Ruby flinched in her grasp and renewed her efforts to struggle free.

 

Cas seemed to take that as a signal it was okay to move, and began to slowly roll himself to his feet, checking, assessing as he went. When he was standing at last, he backed towards the wall, limping slightly, his hand pressed to the stretch of scorched fabric and flesh just above his right hip as he followed the cavern wall around towards Shran.

 

“I was not made for you, Ruby. I am _not_ in your image, or the image of your master. You would steal my power and damn the Universe. You may be right about the Jedi, but you are _wrong_ about the Sith. Azazel will destroy the Force if he continues along his path. I cannot stop him. But I can stop you,” Mina said, her tone low and menacing, as her fingers closed more tightly around Ruby’s arm. She was lifting Ruby off the ground, using her connection to the Force, her soul’s _embodiment_ of the Force to pick Ruby up. And as she lifted, Ruby blurred more and more as if she was sliding from her body—Mina’s body.

 

Shran watched with rapt attention as Mina and Ruby struggled, using the Force to push against each other, but as the seconds ticked by, it became clear that the power flowed freely into Mina, while with each passing moment Ruby had to expend more and more energy just to stay in her body, and as she did so, her grasp on the Force, her ability to use it to affect the physical world grew weaker and weaker and weaker, until she was _beside_ herself, or rather, her spectral presence was translated sideways just out of alignment with her physical body, so looking at her had the same blurriness and afterimage one might get from overindulgence in lum. He noticed Mina’s hand was gripping the spectral Ruby, and as she slid a little further out of phase, Mina brought her other hand up so she was gripping Ruby by both arms and glaring into her eyes.

 

“You do not belong here. You are _nothing_ like the Guide. You steal what was given freely to him, you force where his predecessor went willingly. And your control. Is. Weak.” As she said ‘weak,’ she _shook_ Ruby, tearing her fully away from the body.

 

Ruby looked stunned then seemed to collapse in on herself, her Force presence shrinking and fading with her, while Mina continued to grip, push, tear, until Ruby flickered and popped out of existence with a small explosion of crackling, Dark Side energy. The moment Ruby was gone, Ruby’s—no Mina’s—body collapsed to the cavern floor with an unceremonious thud.

 

Ruby’s Force presence was gone, and Shran couldn’t see a glimmer of life from the now-still form. Perhaps it was for the best. He didn’t want to think about what _deeds_ Ruby must have done with it while she possessed it. While he supposed it was better Mina hadn’t been trapped, a prisoner in her own body, like so many possession victims, Ruby’s presence had probably still left a taint that would be sickening to live with. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. At least now Mina could move on and be at peace. She was strong enough that she would become one with the Force, and—if Dean succeeded anyway—spend an eternity sharing her wisdom and strength with the Universe as a whole.

 

He expected Mina to look back, maybe say goodbye before fading away and crossing over like so many strong, Jedi and Force-users had done before her, but instead she flickered and _glowed_ , her presence so bright his eyes stung when he tried to look, as her outline became blurry… No, that wasn’t her outline, but her Force signature… it was merging, reintegrating somehow. The bits of her that had been left behind were joining with her spectral form. She flickered again and then _flashed_ and seemed to swoop down into the body where it lay on the ground.

 

Shran jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He was so intently focused on Mina and what was going on with her soul and body—squinting with his senses in the Force to try to get a good look at her Force presence—that he had completely missed Cas’s approach. He glanced over. Cas was smiling at him, the worry in his eyes eclipsed by something that seemed like pride and… approval. He was standing up straighter than before and appeared to be in less pain.

 

“I must go to Dean. It is almost time, and he will need me,” Cas said.

 

Shran gulped, the saliva sliding down his throat not enough to lubricate its suddenly parched feeling. “What about…” he croaked. He swallowed again, tried to clear his throat, and looked back at Cas. “What about Mina?”

 

Cas’s face slid into a radiant smile, positively beaming. He cast a glance at Mina and said, “You told her you would teach her. She is your responsibility. Your student. A new member of the Protectorate. You can care for her when she wakes.”

 

Shran looked over too in time to see Mina’s chest rise and fall as her Force presence evened out into the harmonious hum of a living Force sensitive, all trace of Ruby gone. “Oh!” he said, startled.

 

“I must go now,” Cas said resolutely and squeezed Shran’s shoulder.

 

Shran tore his eyes away from Mina to look back at Cas just in time to see the resolute, distant look in his eyes. “May the Force be with you,” he said softly as Cas strode from the cavern room and set off up the tunnel at a jog, all hint of his injuries gone.

 

At that moment Mina stirred, her eyes fluttering open as she coughed and spluttered.

 

Shran let out a long sigh, letting his thoughts and hopes for Dean and Cas’s success go, and turned to the young woman lying on the ground. He could tell she was Mina now, that same warmth, kindness, and confidence radiating from her.

 

“Gariq?” she asked, her voice shaky. “Am I alive?”

 

“Yes, you are,” he said, dropping to one knee by her side. “Welcome back.”

 

“Where are we?” she asked, starting to curl into a seated position and flinching when the movement apparently hurt.

 

He reached out to help her up, gently guiding her until she was sitting and breathing without obvious pain.

 

She looked around curiously.

 

“We’re on Korriban, where I brought your spirit. You did it. She’s dead. The Messenger is dead. Gone,” he said.

 

She nodded with a little grunt of satisfaction. “Good. And the Healer? The guide?”

 

“Well, I hope they’re about to go destroy Ruby’s master… if not, the Force is going to tear apart in the next few hours, and the Universe is more or less… over. But I’m starting to think their plan might just work. Whatever it is,” he added distantly. “Can you stand?”

 

Mina seemed to assess herself, wiggling fingers and nudging her legs around, much like Cas had eased himself up after Ruby tossed him. “I think so,” she said at last, taking Shran’s proffered arm and grunting only a little as she rose to her feet on wobbly legs. “What is going on?”

 

“Let me take you to the _Dream_ ,” he started. “That’s Dean—the Healer’s—ship,” he added, when she shot him a confused glare. “I’ll tell you everything I know, and we can wait there for the world to not end.”

 

“S—sounds good,” she agreed, as they began the long, slow, trek up out of the cavern and back to the ship.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 37:**

(meanwhile) _Just outside the cave complex, Korriban_ (present day)

 

Bobby Singer—Hunter, long-time friend of John Winchester, and surrogate uncle to Sam and Dean—swam back to awareness, the pain thudding in his skull in time with the beat of his heart. He reached up and flinched when his fingers brushed against the tacky spot on the side of his head where one of Azazel’s acolytes—Lilith, he thought it was—had slugged him with the pommel of her lightsaber. He opened his eyes slowly, vision swimming before resolving into the bland, dim interior of a nondescript room with a high ceiling. What little light there was stabbed at his eyes and made him want to flinch and curl away. Definitely a concussion then. _Damn idjit Winchesters!_ he cursed to himself. Granted it was Dean and _Cas_ who had summoned him to this blasted former Sith stronghold, and Cas wasn’t technically a Winchester, but then again, the way the ghost boy was attached to Dean at the hip, he might as well have been. Besides, they were here to save the Universe, and the Force, and maybe Sam too. So he was here for _both_ Winchester brothers.

 

Of course Dean and Cas were dealing with Sam and the Sith Lord. He shuddered at the thought, flinching at the vision of Sam’s face with cold, heartless yellow eyes. Of all the experiences he’d had since Sam and Dean came to him the better part of a year ago and sent him on what should have been a white-horned iriaz hunt, getting a holovid of the horrors of their possible future streamed directly into his mind courtesy of touching that ancient lizard was definitely the most unsettling. He hoped and prayed that the Force he couldn’t touch would be with them and they would all be saved. Of course, if Dean didn’t succeed it was unlikely Bobby would exist in any form to _care_ or know that things hadn’t worked out, but still… He hated feeling so useless. He’d gone and gotten himself captured after all, and before he got conked on the head, there had been that rather unpleasant bit with the mental torture… He shuddered at the recollection of the two Sith forcing him to relive his most painful experiences over and over again.

 

Sith… Jedi… Yet here he was rooting for Force users. It was unendingly _strange_ He’d never shared John’s suspicion and hatred of Jedi, but as a Hunter, he’d spent most of his life trying to solve problems and undo the mess and devastation the Force had caused. He’d lost his wife to the Dark Side. Side effects of a previously unidentified Force sensitive getting his hands on a powerful Sith artifact and wreaking havoc throughout their small Tatooine community. The Jedi had hushed it up and didn’t seem to really _believe_ the cause had been anything Sith-related at all. They got skittish and plagued with denial whenever the possibility came up. The Order liked to think the Dark Side was dealt with, controlled, or that the Sith only worked in big, ostentatious shows of power that attacked the Jedi, not the innocents of the galaxy.

 

He could have been one of those people who’d fallen under the thrall of Azazel, heeded his message of freedom from Jedi tyranny and neglect—he’d never liked their policy of splitting up families either. But he’d become a Hunter instead, figured out the ways to keep the peace and clean up the messes that were beyond the Jedi’s notice, or defied their skewed sense of reality. It was only now that he realized it wasn’t the _Force_ or those who could wield it that were destructive and dangerous, but rather the viewpoints and attitudes of the Jedi and Sith. Their… _Force Traditions_ misunderstood the nature of the Force on a fundamental level. He could see that now, and in their millennia long struggle against each other they had created this mess, created the imbalance that caused so much pain and destruction. But the Force itself could do _good_. Dean had showed him that. So ironic or not, he was praying the Force would be with him.

 

A shrill squeal to his left brought Bobby back to the present, cabining his drifting thoughts and refocusing them on the task ahead. He turned towards the noise, his vision blurring, and caught a glimpse of a little astromech droid. _Right_ … Bobby might not be able to go up against Azazel or that Ruby girl—he shuddered at the thought—but he just might be able to take out those blasted Sithspawn acolytes. That was how he… and Chevy… had gotten into this mess in the first place. Dean and Cas had summoned him to Korriban. Cas had placed a rather frantic (well as frantic as he’d ever seen Cas in the limited time he’d known him) holocom call explaining they’d found the Beckonstone—this Sith relic they’d been hunting ever since rumors of it started popping up on Myrkr, the rather creepy planet the ysalamiri called home. He’d passed on all the information he could gather, but he’d never expected them to actually find the blasted thing. But find it they had, and they’d used it to track Sam and his blonde companion.

 

So, Bobby had gathered up the Runes, powered up the Womp Rat, and plotted the riskiest hyperspace path he’d ever flown and high-tailed it all the way to Korriban. He’d landed, Chevy had shown up and started going on about the acolytes and Runes, and the next thing he knew, they were stepping out of the _Womp Rat_ and getting ambushed.

 

His head was still pounding, and he really didn’t want to move. Or think about what he was supposed to be doing. Or where he was. Bobby’s stomach twisted up in knots after he’d tried to look over at Chevy.

 

 _Beep. Burt. Whiirr. Woot._ The trilling, chirping noise sounded like it was right next to his ear.

 

Bobby blinked and opened his eyes again, moving his head more slowly this time. Sure enough, Chevy had trundled across the room from where he’d last seen her and was now standing right next to him. _Huh._

 

She leaned forward on her feet, servos whirring, and chirped and bleated at him. From his angle she it looked almost like she was _scolding_ him, which, knowing Chevy wasn’t that unlikely.

 

Of course, leaning forward also had the benefit of putting the datapad where he could see it. Bobby forced his eyes to focus and read the translation scrolling across the screen.

 

Restraining bolts do not hold me.  That obnoxious Sith wench was foolish.

Bobby could almost _hear_ the unstated “you should know better” in the sarcastic tone of her beeps.  “That’s great, Chevy.  But where are we?  And where are they?”

 

Storage room.  Outside the old Sith Academy.  I hope you are unharmed.  We must hurry and place the Runes before they return.

 

Bobby struggled to his feet. “We still have the Runes?” He was a little surprised. He knew there was every likelihood they’d get caught—just not that soon—so when the Cathar woman and the scary, almost skeletal-looking human man with yellow eyes had _jumped them_ the moment they lowered the ramp on the _Womp Rat_ , Bobby had assumed they were, well, _doomed_. And that was before the creepy skeletal one… Alastair… had started with the Force-aided holonovel of horror.

 

Chevy squawked again, drawing Bobby’s eyes to the readout on her datapad.

 

I told you the woman was foolish.

 

He let out an amused chuckle in response.  “Well, the Sith sure are overconfident.”

 

Chevy let out an indignant bleat Bobby didn’t need translated.

 

“And sloppy,” he said as he managed to get a good look at their surroundings, turning slowly so as not to nauseate himself.  They were—aside from the shiny, silver restraining bolt—completely unguarded and unrestrained.  The Sith hadn’t even bothered to tie Bobby up.  The room they were in was some sort of out-of-use store room—it could have been designed for any purpose, but at present it was mostly empty aside from an array of partly open boxes of different sizes and shapes.  He squinted into a corner, widening his eyes—and wincing—if he wasn’t mistaken that was a half-empty crate of a fairly recent model of Czerka Arms handheld blasters.  Apparently the Sith didn’t consider them to be threats.

 

There are surveillance systems active outside this room, including perimeter sensors which will alert them to any attempt to open doors.  I believe the Sith assumed you are too injured and exhausted and I would be incapacitated.  They expect us to try to escape.  They would also sense us in the Force.

 

Bobby snorted when Chevy had finished her noisy explanation.  “Pretty long-winded for you.”

 

She let out another squawking bleat of annoyance.

 

“But you still have the Runes?”

 

The little droid rolled back and sprung the latch on her main storage compartment, revealing all four Runes neatly stacked side-by-side two deep inside. She let out an angry, sarcastic trill that made the banthas rioting in Bobby’s brain stampede a little louder.

 

“It was a rhetorical question, Chevy,” Bobby sighed. Rubbing his forehead wearily. “Okay. So we have the runes. If we step outside the room, they’ll know we’re here. We could bring the runes and lure them to us… maybe get lucky and have time to place the runes… or place the runes and lure them into the center. If the corridor outside is small enough that could work, then we’d be ready to start reading the invocation—”

 

Chevy squealed loudly.

 

“What?”

 

Bobby let out another sigh and squinted at the text sprinting at a frantic pace across the screen of the datapad.

 

No need.  Sith are coming back.  Will be here soon to check on us.  If we set the runes now, when they enter the room they will be inside the radius.

 

Chevy seemed placated.

 

Bobby just hoped the invocation would work.  Last time they’d tried this the ritual had sealed the rift into the Dark Side, but Darth Azazel and his acolytes had escaped before they found out I the Runes could actually rip the Sith Force-ghosts from their host bodies.

 

When Bobby hesitated, Chevy started chirping again, eventually rolling up to his side and trilling softly to get his attention.

 

Insurance, was all the screen said.

 

“Huh?” Bobby asked, wishing the concussion wasn’t making him feel so… fuzzy.

 

The little droid rolled closer and angled back, so the now-open compartment was at convenient grabbing height.

 

 _Ah_ , he was pretty sure he got it now. She wanted him to place the runes, and she’d take care of whatever the ‘insurance’ was. Bobby just hoped it wasn’t something potentially dangerous or lethal to _them_. He waved her on encouragingly and trudged across the room to place the first rune. It was really a good thing there were boxes in here—they gave him something in and behind which to hide the Runes. Granted Lilith and Alastair did seem to be very dismissive of him, but he wasn’t willing to assume they would be that unobservant. Unlike last time, there were no ysalimiri on hand. All the lizards were back on Myrkr, which was a good thing. If he’d brought them here, the Sith could have brought the lizards to Dean, and that would more or less be game over. Like having a skifter change your Idiots Array into a useless four when you’d bet everything you had.

 

—Maybe he’d been spending too much time around Dean. Or too much time around smugglers, trying to dredge up information, because the Sabacc references were frighteningly inappropriate at a time like this.

 

He managed to hide the first rune behind a sack full of dehydrated rations, the kind Republic relief services brought to planets facing natural disasters and the like because they pretty much never went bad. The rations were probably stolen, but the bag was full and created good cover for the Rune. The Sith definitely wouldn’t see it, and if they weren’t _looking_ , or were _distracted_ by whatever Chevy had planned, they probably wouldn’t notice it. Of course, if they did, they’d probably fling the entire heavy sack across the room at Bobby or Chevy, but if they noticed the Runes, chances were the Sith would have plenty of more lethal responses. Flying sacks of dehydrated nerf cubesteak were the least of their concerns. The second rune went in between two boxes of ammunition. The third slipped behind a piece of loose decorative molding, and the fourth went into the box of Czerka blasters.

 

While Bobby slowly made his way around the room, Chevy puttered about, tweeting and chirping and blurting on occasion, clearly doing something that involved one of the rooms three doors and possibly an electrical panel. Bobby wasn’t entirely sure though, because he was moving so gingerly thanks to his throbbing head, by the time he’d placed the fourth Rune, Chevy was already tucked back away where she’d been when he woke up.

 

And she was whistling something at him.

 

He started to approach, but her incensed blurt was so clearly a “No!” he stopped immediately in his tracks.

 

 _Footsteps_ —someone was coming; approaching quickly in the hallway outside.

 

Bobby stumbled and half-dove back towards the awkward synthide blanket on which he’d awoken. He’d just managed to rearrange himself in what he hoped was a good approximation of the position he’d been in when he’d awakened, when the door slid open and the two Sith strode into the room.

 

 _That was close!_

 

He did his best to appear still and (hopefully) unconscious.

 

The Sith were conversing, having what sounded like a heated debate as they stomped into the room.

 

“I believe he _underestimates_ the cunning and deviousness of the older Winchester boy. I do not think it wise for us to leave our Master at this time!” That was the nauseatingly nasal voice of the man, Alastair.  The Sith had been audacious enough to _introduce_ themselves when they intercepted Bobby earlier.

 

Bobby wondered absently if the man whose body Alastair now wore had sounded that way, or if that was Alastair’s voice from when he was _truly_ alive, or if it was some twisted product of having spent five thousand years in a thought bomb hidden inside the Dark Side of the Force, being hideously tortured.

 

“Who are we to question our Master!” the Cathar woman, Lilith, exclaimed in her hissing voice. “What you say may be true, but if we are loyal servants we will heed Lord Azazel’s wishes. Follow his _orders_!”

 

Bobby snuck a peek out of the corner of his eye, and sure enough, Lilith was looming over Alastair, leaning close enough that any _normal_ person would flinch or at least lean back. Of course Alastair was about the same height as Lilith—both were close to two meters tall—and definitely not a _normal_ anything, let alone person, and he was holding his ground unflinchingly. Satisfied the two were embroiled enough in their argument, he began the invocation, chanting quickly under his breath, forcing just enough air out of his mouth to make sure the words were truly _voiced_. It was working. He was more than half way through the chant before the Sith seemed to notice he was awake.

 

“We really must go. If our Master is so _foolish_ then perhaps we should take his place!” Alastair sneered.

 

“Shh—quietttttt!” Lilith hissed, cutting him off.

 

The room was suddenly silent.

 

Bobby knew they would hear him, but he couldn’t stop the chant. If he stopped now, it would fail.

 

“What is he—” Lilith began to ask, but then she _too_ was silenced, this time by the _insurance_ Chevy had insisted on.

 

At that moment, every light in the room flared bright, flipped to darkness, then flared bright again, before _exploding_ in a shower of sparks and shards of transpariplast and what sounded like silica glass. Bobby flinched as the pieces rained down on him, tinkling and crashing as they hit the ground. As if that wasn’t enough, electricity arced from one door to the next, to the next, and then jumped to a part-full box of explosives—one that was close to the Sith but far from the Runes, causing it to explode.

 

The Sith responded by channeling their focus—and the Force—into containing and deflecting the explosion and protecting themselves from the cascade of glass falling from the large bank of old-style lights up above. If their screams, hisses, and shouts were anything to go by, the didn’t know _what_ had happened.

 

Of course, they were also very, very angry, so if Bobby didn’t finish _now_ chances were he’d be dead long before he got another chance. Just two more lines and a repeat of the first. Three lines total and it was done… Then two… then one…

 

Alastair groaned, and Lilith gasped.

 

Bobby wasn’t Force sensitive, but he could tell the exact moment the Runes activated. They _glowed_ \--brilliant blue green swirls shone where the Runes lay—it was as if the materials that surrounded them and shielded them from view were suddenly transparent. The air _changed_ , becoming thick at first before shifting again into something electrical and charged. Bobby could taste the ozone on his tongue.

 

Most of all, the glow seemed to reach and _extend_ permeating the room, spreading out until all the space between the rooms was covered. It seemed to pass harmlessly over Bobby, and when he stole a glance at Chevy, she too appeared un harmed.

 

The two Sith, however, did not fare so well. The moment the blue and green light reached them they began howling in agony. Their bodies seemed to shudder and blur, and he realized with a sickening lurch, somehow the Runes were pulling the Sith out of their stolen bodies, little by little, and then more and more, as their cries grew louder, until suddenly, the bodies dropped, and the black-tainted ghostly forms were left behind.

 

When Lilith’s spectral form turned, and started to take a step, Bobby began to panic thinking for a moment that the Runes had done nothing more than strip the Sith of their current hosts and give them reason to want to try and possess _him_ , but no sooner had she tried to move, than the glow from the Runes intensified, illuminating the entire room. The two Sith Force-ghosts were cast in shadow, appearing as monstrous onyx clouds before flashing bright white and then, with a tearing sound, disappearing.

 

The glow immediately dimmed and the room was suddenly dark and _silent_.

 

Bobby realized the roaring in his ears was partially his frantic heartbeat, but also the after effect of a loud whine the Runes had emitted while active.

 

A light flicked on from somewhere to his left, causing him to jump, but it was just Chevy turning on her utility lamp. The small, but powerful, beam of light played around the room showing two dead bodies, a lot of broken glass and transpariplast, and the same boxes and crates that had been there before.

 

Bobby gingerly picked himself up, and let out another shout when Chevy whistled and emergency glowpanels clicked on.

 

Chevy made a series of bleats that he didn’t need a translation to know constituted her laughing at his expense followed by something along the lines of “emergency backups” and “I’m not stupid.”

 

“Good—good diversion, Chevy,” he said approvingly. “Thank you.”

 

She whistled graciously and together they began the task of retrieving the Runes. Chevy used her grappling arm to pull the Runes out from between the boxes and from under the sack, while Bobby retrieved those stuck behind the molding and from inside the weapons crate. He was somewhat _surprised_ to see them still intact. He’d expected… well, he wasn’t quite sure. After the light show, he thought maybe they would have melted, self destructed, used all their power. But they looked the same as they had before, their blue and green swirls as brilliant as ever.

 

He tucked them safely back inside Chevy’s compartment and, after careful consideration, retrieved two blasters and as much ammunition as he could reasonably carry. “Chevy, can you locate Dean?”

 

She trilled the affirmative.

 

“Then let’s go find him. Maybe we can try the Runes again, if all else fails.”

 

Chevy didn’t object, and the doors—surprisingly—slid open without protest as they approached, so Bobby followed the little astromech out of the building and across the barren plains of Korriban in search of the Winchesters.

 

~~~

~~~

 

 **Chapter 38:**

 _Waterfall, Cave complex, Korriban_ (present day)

 

“Dean, Dean, Dean!” Azazel said with Sam’s mouth, his eyes flaring bright yellow, immediately turning Sam’s handsome features sinister, evil. “That’s not going to work, I’m afraid. You see, Sammy boy understands me. You can fill him with your lies all you want, but he’s gotten something from me he’s never had before.”

 

Dean couldn’t hold back the derisive snort. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” he muttered, then louder, “What’d you give him, sulfur breath? A Sith back massage? Possibly an unlimited, lifetime supply of regret?”

 

“Weak. Weak, and pathetic. Of course I’d expect no less, coming from you. You always were a screw up. Couldn’t protect your mom. Or get to your dad in time. Even your dear friend Bobby got captured by my acolytes, and—oh yeah—right about now, my _secret weapon_ is eviscerating your precious little guide.” Azazel snorted then tsked, laughing at his own joke. He manipulated Sam’s face into a wide smile that was more of a grimace. “Most of all, you couldn’t protect Sam. I’ve _got_ him. I showed him _freedom, power, respect_ —all the things he never had living with you or your father,” Azazel spat. “Or even with his beloved Jess.”

 

The reminder of Jess’s fiery death caught Dean by surprise, cramping his stomach with a wave of violent, unanticipated pain, he choked of a cry, and hunched in on himself, almost missing Azazel’s vicious blow, but blocking in time, catching it on the back of his lightsaber, his wrists twisted at an awkward angle. But he recovered quickly, his feet dancing backwards, carefully avoiding the precipice, and using the uncomfortable position to spin his blade out and up, twisting Azazel’s blade away.

 

“Sammy is all ready to give himself to me. And when he does, _we_ will be all-powerful. No power in the Universe will be able to stop us. Your sorry excuse for a connection to the Force won’t be a match!” Azazel sneered, pressing the attack forward.

 

“Yeah, ‘cause the Force will tear apart, and everything in the Universe will be _dead_!” Dean shouted back, projecting his voice in the Force as he reached out in the Force for Sam.

 

They traded blows, Dean jumping and flipping out of the way, twisting his arms, legs, and torso away from Azazel’s twirling amethyst blade. It was almost impossibly fast, but Dean felt the thrum of the _Aequitas Animae_ , the rightness of it, how it was an extension of himself, an extension of his mother before him, bequeathed with the most powerful of Force protections to him, creating an impenetrable bond between weapon and wielder. The lightsaber was a literal extension of his Force presence. There was no seam between them. Not weak spot. No join.

 

Where as with Sam’s blade—whether he or Azazel were in control—there were vulnerabilities. Dean could easily disarm Sam—Azazel. He could tear he blade away toss it into the raging waters… That might allow him to kill Sam, but not destroy Azazel, and not save Sam. So he waited, ignored the urge to tear that amethyst blade away.

 

He let his training and instinct and the Force guide and control his body, ignoring the unending stream of taunts stemming from Azazel’s lips. He was pretty sure he even responded at the right times, shot back the words Azazel would expect to hear, but he wasn’t conscious of it. It was shifted to some back corner of his mind. He couldn’t reach Sam that way. Because Azazel was in control.

 

No, he could reach Sam through the Force. By connecting their minds. And then he could reach him through _touch_. Physical contact, both with their bodies and their lightsabers, especially his. It was the plan he and Cas hadn’t been able to share with anyone. Not Bobby, not Shran, not even Chevy. He’d thought it dangerous and unlikely, but now as he _realized_ what his psychometric powers could really do, and understood the depth of his connection to Sam’s mind, he started to realize it was stunningly easy. They might both wind up dead, of course, that was the hard part.

 

But Azazel would be destroyed, and the Force would survive.

 

He extended himself, reaching out further, focusing his senses in the Force until _finally_ he felt it, the familiar brush of Sam’s mind. He’d been touching Sam’s mind for years—his entire life, really—without even understanding he was using the Force.

 

Dean waited, pushed again, and felt Sam nudge back.

 

Sam was still angry and unsure and conflicted and oh so very lost and alone. He felt abandoned, devalued, dismissed, and tainted. Dean could _feel_ it as if the self-loathing and fear were his own, and he ached for his brother. Hated himself for a moment for not being able to stop this, for not being able to see what was happening and get through to Sam. Sam’s secrets were laid bare, naked before him—the nightmares, visions forced on him by Azazel, one version of the Future, now past, repeated over and over and over. Sam killing Dean. Sam killing Dean. Sam killing Dean. It was inescapable, and unending loop of pain and guilt and despair. Sam had tried. He’d tried to believe. He’d tried to push past it. He’d finally given himself over to research and when nothing worked he’d looked farther and farther until he was finding possible answers in Sith teachings, in the Dark Side—and then the frustration and betrayal and confusion of hearing the people who supposedly loved and cared about him, who preached and insisted the Jedi’s view of the Force was skewed and wrong, telling him not to use the Dark Side.

 

Dean felt Sam’s desperation and the utter loss and abandonment he suffered when he finally left, believing it the only way to save Dean. He felt the flare of hope at meeting Ruby, the sense of partial disbelief warring with hope so pure, Sam had tamped down on his doubt and threw it away. The discovery and growing surge of power. The pride at having his mother’s lightsaber. The thrill of control. The lust for Ruby, the feel of her body against his, tight and hot and slick. And then the crushing betrayal, the anguish as Azazel kissed him, forced himself inside, and took control. The sensation of being awake in his own skin but unable to control anything while Azazel and Ruby re-consummated their relationship after five thousand years. The sickening twist of realization that Ruby really did love—as much as a twisted Sith Lord could—both him and Azazel and relished in the thrill of them together. So much hatred. So much loss. So much fear.

 

And now… now Sam would almost welcome death. He would. He _was_ tempted by Azazel’s offer, and had almost given in so many times, but something felt wrong, and Sam didn’t like to lose. He was also starting to believe Dean. After all, the moment in which he _killed_ Dean every night in his dreams had come and passed and Dean was still there. So maybe what he was saying about the Force and Azazel and Sam going willfully was the truth.

 

As Sam’s thoughts spiraled out in front of Dean he latched on— _Yes! Sam, yes!! I am telling the truth. It will destroy the Force. But we can stop him. We can stop him, save everyone._

 

There was silence between their minds as Azazel’s blade slashed and chopped faster and faster.

 

Dean was vaguely aware of the strain of his muscles. The burn, the need for more oxygen, the threat of the pounding water as Azazel tried again and again to force him closer to it.

 

Then, finally, when he’d thought maybe Sam _wouldn’t_ respond after all.

 

 _How?_ Sam—Sammy—asked, his voice in Dean’s mind small, accompanied by an image of four-year-old Sammy asking where Daddy was, and why they didn’t have a mom like most kids.

 

 _Do you trust me, Sammy?_

 

 _Yes, I always trust you, Dean. I’m sorry…_

 

 _Shhhh,_ he mentally hushed his brother, his ‘tone’ soothing. _It’s okay. I forgive you. Just_ trust _me._

 

He felt Sam’s agreement.

 

He reached out and brushed Cas’s mind. Discovered Ruby was defeated (he kept that knowledge from Azazel, of course), and Cas was on his way. And he gave in. Dean stopped, switched off his blade, and lowered his arms to his side.

 

Azazel paused in mid strike, stunned for a millisecond, and then swept in for the kill.

 

Dean felt the sizzling burn of the blade, striking deep into his gut, running him through. He smelled and tasted the sickening odor of burning flesh, charred muscle, melting fat… He felt the energy tear through him, mortally wounding him… or at least that’s what should have happened.

 

He also felt Sam’s horror and shock, his confusion, and rebellion against Azazel.

 

 _Just trust me, Sammy,_ he thought through the Force, his voice stronger than ever.

 

Sam relaxed, still confused, but more curious.

 

The Force was flowing through Dean, and he opened himself wider, like a faucet opened to the fullest extent. The Force _poured_ into him, overwhelmingly quickly, healing him as he healed it. Sam’s resistance was already easing it’s fragmentation a little. He had all the power he needed to sustain himself, regardless of the state of his physical body. Then he lifted his left hand and squeezed Sam’s arm, skin to skin contact where his un-gloved hand slipped under the sleeve of Sam’s tunic.

 

Sam gasped, both mentally and audibly. Dean was sending him everything. Images of their mother. The history of the Protectorate. The true nature of the Force. His love for Sam. The reflection of Sam’s love for him. Cas and his bond. Memories of Chevy and childhood, and all the times they’d shared and laughed and loved and dreamed flashing faster and faster together. He let Sam see what would happen if he had joined with Azazel, let him see the Force—the indigo river within him, saw it tearing apart and knitting back together. Until finally, Sam understood, understood and agreed.

 

 _I need you to detach, Sammy. You can stay inside your body, but don’t let the blade touch you. Hide. I need to destroy Azazel. It will be okay._ And for the first time, Dean really believed that too.

 

 _Okay_ , Sammy whispered in his mind. Voice adult now, and somewhat scared, but brave, trusting.

 

Dean could sense it. Azazel was filled with victory, convincing himself it would only be a moment longer and Dean’s power would run out, his life would fade, and Sam—the Chosen One—would see the need to join with Azazel willfully. The power they could share.

 

Dean kept Sam’s change of heart and his own intentions completely blocked.

 

He thumbed the switch on the lightsaber, the _Aequitas Animae_ , masking its sound as it flared to life. Then, with his right hand alone, he lifted it up, and jabbed it through Sam’s body. Pushing the Force and the essence of his being into it through his connection with the blade.

 

Azazel was so shocked at first, he appeared not to realize what had happened, until, suddenly, he looked down, his hands going lax around the hilt of the purple lightsaber still buried in Dean.

 

Dean spared a thought to turn off that blade and it disengaged, the handle clattering to the floor of the cave and rolling away, the sound lost in the roar of the water fall.

 

And then it was just him and Azazel. The Healer and the Wraith. He showed Azazel all the ways he was wrong about the Force. How he was right about the Jedi, but how he didn’t have to take that path. He let him _feel_ all the lives he destroyed, while he slowly then more quickly, overwhelmed Azazel with the full power of the Force.

 

The weaker Azazel became, the more balanced the Force grew, tipping back and back and back within Dean… the Fulcrum of the Force… until finally it was in equipoise. For the first time in tens of millennia, possibly longer, the Force was balanced. Dean reached out with his mind, and tore Azazel asunder.

 

The Sith Master died with an echoing scream in the Force, and then he was gone.

 

Dean switched off his blade and lowered the weapon to the ground, catching Sammy as he fell. Then he was healing him. The Force flowing so freely now. It easily began to heal them both, no longer tearing him apart.

 

He coaxed Sammy back out of the corner of his mind where he’d retreated, as he felt the comforting presence of Cas at his side. He was weak, but growing stronger, his own wound already beginning to heal.

 

Cas added his strength and love to the effort, and finally, finally Sammy was breathing on his own, no longer a gaping hole in his chest.

 

“Dean?” Sam asked uncertainly, looking up at him. “Is that really you? Is Azazel really gone?”

 

“Yeah Sammy,” Dean answered with a grin, “It’s really me. Azazel’s destroyed and Ruby’s gone for good too.” Dean glanced over and stole a quick kiss from Cas, whose hand was resting over Dean’s just-healed wound. “We did it. Welcome back, little brother.”

 

“What happens now?” Sam asked. “I can still touch the Force.”

 

“Of course you can.” It was Cas’s turn to answer. “You were always meant to. And if you don’t mind…”

 

“Working with us, and learning a few new things,” Dean picked up. “You’re welcome to join the Protectorate. We’re all about balance in the Force…”

 

“And watching over the fate of the Universe.”

 

“I think I—I think I’d like that,” Sammy answered.

 

And for the first time in his life, Dean felt only love and peace. Not dread. He leaned back into Cas and looked forward to what the future would hold.

 

The End?


End file.
